You are My Nothing
by TheSecretAdmirer
Summary: Clary is a sophomore coping with the death of her mother. Jace poses a student to report her movements back to the anxious Council, who is desperate to find out if she is a pawn in her father's game. Despite the their directive that he not make contact, Jace develops a fascination with her that blossoms into something which threatens to destroy them both. Cover art by Cassandrajp!
1. Chapter 1

Warning: **There will be consensual Clebastian in this**. I am coming to see that this seems to be a huge point of contention in the fandom, but it serves the story, so it's happening. Don't panic when it does.

* * *

 **You are My Nothing**

 _Eres mi nada, cuando la gente me encuentra con la mirada perdida y me pregunta: ¿En que piensas?_

 _-Mario Benedetti_

 **Chapter 1**

Clary glanced over at the blonde guy sitting several seats down from her in the lecture hall to find he was watching her—again. It had been going on for weeks, him always watching her, and at first she'd simply told herself she was being vain or paranoid. However, they were nearly two months into the semester now, and Clary was positive; he was watching her.

At seeing her glance in his direction, he casually looked away, twirling a pen between long, deft fingers with almost blinding dexterity. She turned back to the front of the lecture hall where the professor was still droning blandly on about the different between _colorito_ and _disegno_ in Italian Renaissance Art, trying to dislodge the knot between her shoulder blades by taking a deep breath. It didn't work, and soon enough she could feel the blonde looking at her again, studying her face in profile as if he meant to draw her. She found herself battling the urge to turn and snap at him to stop.

She couldn't say what about him always looking bothered her so much—a year ago she would have been elated to have an upperclassmen this hot paying attention to her. However, when her mother had died halfway through her second semester, everything had changed. It had stripped Clary of almost everything she knew and loved about herself, and she felt constantly raw. Everyone had assured Clary that healing took time, and that eventually the pain of losing Jocelyn, who was Clary's best friend as much as she was her mother, would fade. However it had been more than six months, and Clary felt no different than she had the day she'd walked her mother's casket be lowered into the ground.

Clary bit her lip and tried not to think of Jocelyn. Missing her was a constant ache, but when Clary delved too deeply into it, the careful stitches she'd formed through therapy and anti-depressants because to strain and tear, and the rancid pain would gush up. It was a hideous feeling, and it made her all the more liable to freak out on her psuedostalker.

Having all but given up on _colorito_ and _disegno_ for the day, she hazarded a glance back at the blonde to find that, for once, he was looking away, texting. She took the opportunity while he was distracted to study him in earnest, the way artists were trained to do. He was older, probably a junior or a senior, and he was honestly so good-looking she wasn't even sure he was attractive. He was a walking laundry list of anatomical perfection, from his sleek feline cheekbones to his lithe legs, which were stretched out and crossed at the ankle. She could see a dark swirling tattoo slithering up from beneath the collar or his members-only jacket. She found herself mesmerized by his hands as he typed. They were deft and graceful—the hands of an artist. She wondered immediately if he was a performance major of some sort, and if so, what instrument he played. He seemed too impatient for the cello or violin, too cool for either brass or winds. Piano, she decided, eying his long fingers.

Her reverie was interrupted when he unexpectedly looked up and caught her studying him. He didn't smile, but a look of self-satisfaction lit his amber eyes, flickering in them like dying firelight. She flushed and turned away, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of seeing her blush. Still, she didn't know why he seemed so pleased with himself; surely he used to having an effect on women. Not that he was affecting Clary in that way, of course, but he didn't know that. Besides, why did he seem to specifically interested in her? She knew she was attractive—she'd never been one of those girls who annoyingly insisted they were plain when they weren't—but she wasn't on this guy's level. No one was. He should have been dating a supermodel. Hell, he practically was one himself.

She supposed with disinterest that if she tried harder—ate less carbs and contoured more—she could be the sort of girl guys like that always went for, but the reality was she had no inclination to do that. She liked who she was, and she wasn't going to change any of it just in an attempt to please some 5th Avenue reject.

She could tell even as she glanced back up at the front that he was still looking at her, and she rolled her eyes. Someone bolder like her roommate Maia might have confronted him after class and demanded to know what his problem was, or flirtatiously insisted that if he was going to continue to gawk, he might as well do it over dinner. However, Clary found she wasn't terribly interested to find out what he wanted, and knowing boys in their early 20's—particularly handsome ones—she could probably already guess anyways.

Besides, there was something deep down, something almost instinctual, that told her he was dangerous. No, not dangerous; the feeling had no sharp edge to it. _Different_. And not different in a romantic, "tortured hottie with a past/paranormal teen fiction" kind of way, either. Truly, fundamentally, _primally_ different, a genuine Otherness she was sure she'd never encountered before. And yet despite that, there was another dimension to it that felt familiar, and that oddly reminded her of her mother.

As the professor announced the end of class and the test on Friday, her eyes flicked over to him a final time. Clary half expected to feel something as they made eye contact, a jolt of recognition or a spark of chemistry, something to validate her instinctual reading of him. However, in the end she only felt awkward, and hurriedly she shut her notebook and scrambled up and out of the classroom, his eyes on her back as she went.

* * *

Alec was at the apartment they'd be assigned when Jace arrived back, tossing down his ridiculous bookbag (all college students used them, Maryse had insisted) and flopping on the couch. Alec's energy changed immediately when Jace entered, became someone brighter and tighter, but Jace didn't seem to notice.

"How's the Mundane?" he asked, glittering eyes drinking Jace in as he tucked his arms beneath his head, the movement tugging his shirt up and revealing a strip of taut flesh in the process.

"She's not a Mundane," Jace replied in a bored voice. "And she's—I don't know. Confusing."

This got Alec's attention, and his back stiffened as he whirled on Jace.

"Confusing how?"

Jace didn't immediately answer, and after a minute he was saved from doing so entirely when Isabelle strode through the front door, still in a cocktail dress from the night before. Ignoring Jace's sardonic expression and her brother's irritated one, she cross the the fridge and took out a sparkling water

"Where have you been?" Alec demanded peevishly.

Isabelle gave a delicate shrug.

"Out. We're supposed to be blending in, remember?"

"No," Alec said. "We're supposed to be watching Clarissa Morgenstern and reporting back to The Clave. She could be in league with her father."

Isabelle bubbled her lips in condescenion.

"Spare me. Whatever her mother did to her, she's a Mundane now. I don't think she even have the sight."

"We don't know that."

"You don't," she corrected. "But I do. Besides, last night wasn't my turn, thank the Angel. I hate watching her. She's so _boring_. She never goes out. She's always with her churchmouse of a boyfriend."

"Simon Lewis isn't her boyfriend," Alec said, rising to the petty and pointless bait. "Did you even read your file?"

"What does it matter?" Isabelle said with an eye roll.

"It does matter," Alec said. "She could be Valentine's new weapon, and we—"

"I don't think she's boring," Jace interrupted from the couch, and both siblings turned to look at him.

"What?" they said in unison before scowling at each other.

Jace shrugged and sat up as Alec's expression darkened.

"You're joking, right?"

Jace shrugged again.

"I didn't say she was the most fascinating creature on earth, but she—" he paused. "There's something different about her that I find...alluring."

"Alluring?" Aleco repeated contemptuously, seeming somewhere between horror and disgust.

"Besides," Jace continued. "She is _very_ easy to look at. That doesn't hurt."

Aleco only scoffed.

"You don't think so?"

"No," the sibling said together again.

Jace supposed he shouldn't be surprised; it was Isabelle's natural disposition to dislike girls whose beauty she feared rivaled her own and Alec's to dislike people in general, so the girl really didn't have a chance.

"What do you mean 'alluring'?" Alec pressed.

"I just mean she's thrumming with all this untapped Seraphic energy. I can feel it every time I—"

"Ew, stop," Isabelle cut in imperiously. "Keep your weird Fairchild fantasies to yourself."

"You know what I'm talking about, right?" Jace said to Alec, sidestepping Isabelle's directive. Of course he'd already imagined having sex with Morgenstern girl; she was beautiful, and he was a guy. Still, it didn't mean anything, and it was better not to tell Alec and send him into a fit about rules and restrictions. They weren't to make contact with her with her in any way; The Clave had been inescapably clear on that.

"No," Aleco said in a tart, almost bitter voice. "I don't."

Jace sighed his annoyance and flopped back, remember the look he'd seen glimmering in her jade tinted eyes, which were a smoky mixture of grey and actual green. There was something different about her, even for a Nephilim. Alec would be quick to point out that it was likely demon blood, the same type Valentine had used on his son before he was burned to death at Fairchild Manor as a baby. Jace wasn't so sure, though. He knew demons, knew their aura and the bitter taste of their blood on the air, and he didn't sense any of that from Clarissa Morgenstern. What he got from her was strong and somehow unknowable, even to him. Even so, he felt like it was calling his name; it had been since the first time he'd seen her.

"I have to go," Isabelle said, interrupting his musing. "Clarissa and I have Qualitative Reasoning in ten minutes, and I've already been called out by the professor twice for being late."

"Is!" Aleco said, indignant. "Low profile!"

Isabelle shrugged.

"I can't help it; I like this college thing overall, but the lessons part is dreadful."

Jace gave a scoff of amusement as Aleco scowled.

"Go on, Is, you're going to be late."

She grabbed her own superfluous bookbag and flounced out, slamming the door behind her.

"I have to go, too," Alec said, rising and throwing on his jacket, which had be flung over the chair. "I have a debriefing at the Institute."

"To tell them what?" "We haven't even come in direct contact with her."

Alec raised a dark eyebrow without humour.

"Let's keep it that way."

With that he strode out after his sister, slamming the door just as loudly and making Jace groan as his thoughts faded back to Clarissa. It was amazing to him that she could be so highly sought after and yet so unaware of it. Absently he wondered if any part of her knew she wasn't Mundane. That she was like them. After all, blood called to blood, and she hailed from two powerful Nephilitic lines; her blood was thicker and more blue than most.

Something in her eyes had told him she did, and then some. That not only was she a Shadowhunter, but that she was prodigious, a singularity among them destined for more. There was no real denying—especially when he was alone—how badly he wanted to understand that part of her, The Clave's warnings be damned, and even as Alec's consternation echoed in his head, he wondered at a way to do just that.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Clary stood in her cramped and overly-decorated dorm room, a curling wand in one hand in a cheap vodka cranberry in the other. Wincing, she took an ambitious swallow of the latter before setting it down and turning back to the mirror just someone knocked at the door.

"Who is it?" she called, glancing nervously down at the drink on her desk with the wand still wound in her coppery hair.

"Residence Life. The gig is up, Fray. Come out slowly with your hands up."

"It's open, Simon," Maia called in a bored voice for her bed, taking a sip of her own horrid drink before passing it to her girlfriend Jordan, who lay on the bed next to her.

"Do you have it?" Clary said excitedly when Simon entered, grinning.

"I have it," he affirmed. "Do you want to see?"

"Of course!" she said, setting down the wand and extending her hand.

Simon reached into his back pocket and drew out an id, handing it to her.

"Eric and I already tried ours and they work. This year is going to be so money."

Clary looked down at the Arizona driver's license with her own name and picture on it before her eyes slid to the birthdate.

"Twenty five?" she said, laughing. "No one is going to believe I'm twenty five!"

"With the right outfit they will," Jordan said.

"With the right outfit they won't care," Maia amended, tossing a lace bodysuit onto Clary's bed, which was already littering with clothes and bits of jewelry. "Wear this."

Clary held it up, and Simon laughed before being silenced by her glare.

"You're joking, right?" she said, though she was already turning to the mirror and holding it up.

"You have small tits," Maia said, taking the lollypop she'd been sucking on out of her mouth before taking a hearty swig of her watermelon vodka drink. "You'll be fine!"

"What do you think?" Clary said, turning to Simon. "Too much?"

"No, don't do that," Simon said. "Don't treat me like your gay best friend. You know I have no idea."

"I found that comment offensive," Maia said lightly, smirk widening when Simon stuttered.

"It's hot, Fray," she continued. "C'mon, live a little!"

"I won't be living at all if my stepdad ever catches me wearing something like this," she said, imagining Luke's disapproving frown.

"Well good thing he doesn't party in the Village, then," Jordan said, and Maia laughed.

"The colour is nice," Simon added lamely, and Jordan and Maia both laughed again.

"Well done, Queer Eye! Now get out here so Clary can change."

Simon rolled his eyes. Clary and Maia had been roommates for a year now, and he was accustomed to, if not totally accepting of, being treated like this.

"We're leaving in ten minutes," he said. "Please tell me you'll be ready by then."

"She will be if you stop distracting her," Jordan pointed out, and Simon rolled his eyes and left, letting the door click shut behind him.

Clary tossed the id onto her purse before stripping off her leggings, tee-shirt, and bra and taking the jumpsuit Maia had given her.

"So any hot guys you like this year?" Maia asked as Clary shimmied into the bodysuit. "You love life is so tragic."

"Or how about hot girls?" Jordan added.

"You two are the hottest girls I'll ever need," Clary said, struggling into high waisted jeans now. She had to admit it did look good.

"That's sweet," Maia said. "But evasive. Give us the dirt, Fray."

Clary considered, turning back to the mirror to finish curling her hair.

"Hot guys? Of course. Hot guys I like? No."

"I think I'm too gay to understand the distinction," Jordan admitted. "What's the difference? They'll all just meat sacks anyway; honestly, how anyone could want to date a man, I'll never understand."

"Someday I'll explain it to you," Maia offered, patting her hand and making Jordan frown. She and Maia had been dating seriously for a while now, but before Jordan, Maia had mostly dated guys, and she contended that she fell in love with personalities, not body parts. "And you're still evading the question, Clary."

Clary rolled her eyes, giving her curls and artful tousle before stepping into thick heel booties.

"I mean of course there are tons of attractive guys around, just none I'm specifically interested in. For instance, there is fratstar Adonis in my—"

"Adonis!" Maia interrupted saucily. "Tell us more!"

"Nothing to tell," Clary said. "He's literally always staring at me, but he hasn't said a single word to me all semester."

"Creepy," Jordan said, as if Clary's anecdote had somehow confirmed her theory about the male sex.

"Annoying," Clary amended. "It's surprisingly hard to focus when someone is always looking at you."

"Maybe he's just shy," Maia pointed out, and Clary gave a bitter laugh

"He's not."

"How do you know? You've never even spoken to him."

"He has that look," Clary said in explanation.

"Look?" Jordan and Maia asked, both rising and finishing their drinks now.

"You know, 'I'm a Ferrari, wanna take me for a spin?'"

Maia laughed and Jordan gagged.

"Today, Fray!" Simon called through the door, and they grabbed their things, drained the rest of their drinks, and left.

* * *

"Finally," Isabelle said. "We get to have some fun. Which one?"

She held up two equally skimpy dresses.

"You went out last night," Alec pointed out in a sour voice. "And who cares? Let's just go already."

"Technically it's Jace's turn to babysit her, so if you're going to be a pill about it, you can go without me."

Jace gave a snort of amusement as she huffed past Alec and stalked back to her own small bedroom.

"And you?" Alec demanded, whirling on Jace.

"I'm ready," Jace said, catching sight of his reflection and admiring himself in it. "I'm always ready."

"Not you, too," Alec said in a growl as Jace ran a hand through his pomaded hair, assuring it was still all perfectly in place.

"Is is right, you know," Jace said. "It's not good to be this wound up all the time."

Alec rolled his shoulders in irritation.

"Let's just focus on the mission."

"I doubt the Circle is going to be lying in wait at a college dive. And look on the bright side, if they are, you'll probably get to stab someone."

Jace tossed Alec a small dagger he tucked into the interior pocket of his leather jacket. They'd be instructed not to wear gear and to cover their marks while they were undercover, but even directives from the Clave hadn't been enough to get Alec out of black.

"Why don't you relax a little, hm?" Jace asked, bracing Alec's shoulder and giving a manly but affectionate squeeze.

Alec's eyes glittered as they met Jace's, and he quickly shrugged out of his touch.

"Today, Is. Please."

On cue Isabelle door swung open to reveal a new outfit, which was little more than a bustier and hot pants.

Alec groaned, eliciting a grin from Isabelle.

"Love me as I am, brother darling," she purred, raising her eyebrows at Jace and making him laugh.

"We ready?" he asked, slipping into a slim bomber jacket.

"What's got you so excited?" Isabelle asked keenly, and Jace laughed off her keen observation.

"I'm just ready for a drink."

"We shouldn't—"

"Oh enough already, Alec!" Isabelle snapped. "Besides, we're supposed to be blending in, remember?"

They arrived at Artica Bar in Midtown about five minutes later, all three looking around for Clarissa. It was a sleek pub on the East side about fifteen minutes by train from the Village, but it was famous among NYU students who being lax about ids, and had quickly become the year's hot spot. A hypnotic pop song was blaring when they entered the crowded space, and the worn oak floorboards were already slick with cheap beer.

Jace grit his teeth, knowing it would ruin the leather of his new chukka boots. It was annoying enough that he had to constantly dress like a Mundane; he preferred not to look like a slob as well.

They were surrounded be a sea of nubile girls and fresh-faced guys, all of whom eyed each other hungrily. Jace's eyes flitted over the banquet with minimal interest. There were some beautiful girls here, no denying it, but it was nothing he hadn't seen and had a million times already. Besides, he was a hunter, born and bred, and it was the pursuit he liked. Except for Isabelle, there had never been a girl he'd liked better after getting to know her, and she was like his sister, so that didn't even really count.

The rest, whatever substance lay beyond the winning, wasn't meant for him. Jace's father had meticulously broken and reforged him, hammering away weakness the way a smith hammered impurities from hot steel. It was this temperance than had made him the warrior he was, but he'd been irreparably damaged in the making, and to love, to _be_ loved in return, was something he'd never experience. That was just as well.; from what he could tell, love only ever caused blindness and pain, anyhow. Besides, as far as consolation prizes went, sex with feelings felt like a pretty decent one to Jace.

"Do you see her yet?" she asked, craning her neck.

"No," Alec said. "How do you know she'll be here?"

"I overheard her—"

Jace wasn't listening. Instead, he watched a buxom brunette walk by and found himself errantly wondering how good it would feel to bury his face in her pillowy chest. Jace was all about a stacked upper half. She noticed him looking and flashed a coy smile, but before he could return the gesture, someone stomped on his foot. _hard._

"Focus, J, c'mon!" Isabelle demanded.

"I am!' he protested, wincing slightly. "That doesn't mean I can't enjoy the scenery. You're acting like you just walked into a Circle meeting. No, worse than than; you're acting like _Alec._ "

Alec scowled at this use of his name as an insult before turning his back to Jace.

"There she is."

Alec gestured, and Jace had to clench his jaw to keep it from hanging open. She wore a lace bodysuit cut the the breastbone, which hugged her slim frame and gave the suggestion of cleavage where there wouldn't have been otherwise. The purplish-gray of it looked good against her creamy skin and copper hair. She was wearing high waisted jean trousers on the bottom, and Jace found himself fighting the almost unconscious urge to squeeze her shapely little arse. If he'd thought she was attractive in leggings and loose sweaters, she'd become distractingly so now.

"Stop staring, Jace!" Isabelle said, trying to elbow him in the ribs this time. However, he was too quick, and he snapped her wrists into vices as they mock grappled.

"Cut it out, you two," Alec said in warning, surreptitiously drawing his stele and placing a hearing rune on his hand so he could hear Clary's conversation with the tall stranger next to her.

"Oh _relax,_ Alec, she's just talking to a boy." Isabelle glanced over. "A _cute_ boy."

"What are they saying?" Jace asked, forcing his voice to sound almost bored. In reality, he felt an annoying prick at watching them.

"Don't be jealous," Isabelle said in a sing-song voice, and he flashed her a foul hand gesture.

"Here," Alec said, annoyed at their banter. He handed Jace the stele, who copied the rune.

"I like your hair," the tall boy was saying.

Clarissa pushed some of it behind her ear, but it wasn't a nervous gesture; for a 19 year old, she had a refreshing self-assurity about her. No, if anything, she was trying to keep her curls out of his reach.

"Thanks," she said simply.

"Is it natural?" the boy pressed, and Jace fought not roll his eyes. In his experience, Mundane men had the worst pick up lines.

"Yes," she said, sounding a touch annoyed.

"I don't believe you," he flirted back, either missing or choosing to ignore her tone. "You might have to prove it"

Clary wrinkled her nose in confusion.

"Ignore him, Clary," a dark-skinned girl cut in. Jace recognised her from the files as Maia Roberts, the roommate. "He's asking if the carpet match the drapes." She turned and gave the boy a look so sour it could have curdled milk. "Pro tip, Shakespeare: next time you try and woo a girl, leave her pubic hair out of it."

At this Clarissa—no, Clary, Jace corrected himself mentally—gave the boy an equally disgusted faced before stalking off after Maia.

"Wow, these Mundy guys are so charming," Alec said in a dry voice to Isabelle. "I can see why you like them so much."

She rolled her eyes. Clary was now on the far side of the lower bar, talking animatedly to Simon Lewis. She'd gone out of range of the small rune, and Jace was sorely tempted to use another even knowing they weren't discussing anything important. He found, with surprise, that he was suddenly somewhat desperate to talk to her himself. Maybe it was the jumpsuit—he was a guy, after all—or maybe it was the confidence and self-possesion she'd shown in turning down that clown who'd just hit on her, Jace didn't know. All he did know was that the Clave and it's rule could go sit on a stele, because he was done playing the perimetre; he had to go in.

"Now that she's all settled in with the Mundy boyfriend," he said in feigned disinterest. "Let's sit down and have a drink. What do you want? I'll buy the first round."

"French 75," Isabelle said, and Jace rolled his eyes. "Is, this isn't a cocktail bar."

"Fine," she huffed, momentarily distracted as a well-muscled black man walked by. "A rum and coke, then."

"Alec?"

"Just water."

"Rum and coke and a vodka soda," Jace said with purpose, making Alec groan. "Be right back."

Jace gracefully descended the stairs towards the lower bar as Isabelle and Alec retreated to a booth at the other end of the space. Jace caught sight of Clary easily, and suppressed a grin when he say she was at the bar, alone. Arcing silently behind her, he casually pushed forwards, positioned himself half a foot or so behind her, and braced for impact.

* * *

Clary handed the bartender a ten and waved off charge as he handed her a gin and tonic. She took a grateful sip before turning and bumping into someone solid, sloshing some of her drink of his leather boots.

"I'm so sorry—" she began as she looked up, but the words died as she glanced at his face. "It's you."

She stared up the blonde from Art History, trying to ignore how much sexier he seemed now that she was a little drunk. He flashed her an easy, winning grin.

"I didn't realise you were looking for me, otherwise I'd have come sooner."

She pursed her lips. He had a low, smooth voice touched by just the slighest accent, like someone who'd been born abroad and raised in The States.

"Thats not what I mean," she said quickly. "I just—we have a class together."

The grin widened, his teeth almost blinding against his tan skin.

"Do we?" he queried politely, and she folded her arms across her chest, getting annoyed now. She noticed his eyes flick down to cleavage (or lack thereof) momentarily. She felt herself grow more annoyed when the gesture send a jolt of warmth to her stomach.

"You know we do," she bit out. "You're always staring at me."

He laughed to indicate she'd caught him in a lie, and she couldn't decide if the sound was alluring or irritating.

"That's kind of an ugly word, isn't it?" he said, amber eyes dancing across her face. "How about 'observing'?"

She met his flirtatious gaze with a hard one of her own.

"Alright busted," he admitted, voice undulating slightly with the accent; her mother was from England, so Clary was very attuned to accents. "Look, it's a boring class, and I like those cartoons you draw. You're very talented."

She laughed despite herself.

"It's not that boring!"

He gave her knowing look, and she unexpectedly laughed harder.

"Oh come on. ' _the difference between Venetian and Tuscan painting can be simplified in two words: colorito v. disegno',_ " he said in imitation of their haggard professor, making her laugh a third time. "Besides," he continued. "The only way to learn about the Renaissance Masters is to see their works _in situ_."

"I guess I wouldn't know," Clary admitted. "I've never been out of the country."

The boy grinned, and there was something heady and dangerous in his eyes that made Clary want to tip forward into them.

"Then maybe it's time someone showed you the world."

She didn't want to give any ground to a line like that, but the way he'd said it, as if it were simply a fact and not an innuendo, was oddly powerful. However, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of knowing it had worked, she simply laughed instead.

"Shining, shimmering, splendid?" she shot back in what she hoped was a coy voice.

His brows knit together as he smiled in confusion.

"Sorry?"

This made her laugh. She thought everyone knew that line.

"I just mean, you basically just invited me to Europe with you, but I don't even know your name yet."

At this, his eyes glittered.

"Jace," he said, extending a slender hand. She glanced at it, the square nails neatly trimmed and the fingers unadorned, saved for a cignet ring on his index finger. It was an incongruous with the rest of his sleek look, the dark fitted jeans, white oxyford, and black suede bomber jacket, but it oddly suited him.

"Clary," she replied, sliding her hand into his. As she did, an electric bolt shot up her arm, and she had to bit back a yelp of surprise. She could feel like buzzing in her fingertips even as they let go, and it was giving her a pleasant head rush.

"Lovely to meet you, Clary," he said, eyes glittering again. Jesus, he was just so attractive. She suddenly found herself hoping with abandon that he was thinking the same thing about her. Stupidly she opened her mouth to say something and salvage what remained of her pride when someone bumped into Jace from behind, sending him flying into Clary.

* * *

The drink Clary seemed to have forgotten she'd been holding splashed in rather fantastic fashion down her front as Jace fell into her, and he tried not to stare as the tonic soaked the thin material, clinging to her chest. He looked quickly away as he shred his own jacket for her to wear, but he couldn't deny a stirring in his lizard brain at seeing her pert nipples through the fabric.

"I'm so sorry," he fumbled with uncharacteristic awkwardness. "Here."

"It's not your fault," she assured him, setting down the empty glass. "No, it's fine, I don't want to steal your jacket."

"Please, I insist," he said, still unsure where do look.

"I guess I don't really have a choice," she conceded with a laugh, taking the coat from him and sliding her arms through. "Thanks."

He watched her inhale the scent of it when she thought he wasn't looking, and it made her stomach tighten pleasantly.

"Now you have an excuse to sit next to me on Monday," he said, raising his eyebrows. "Clever girl."

"Me?" she laughed, readjusting the jacket. "You're the one who tripped!"

"I didn't trip," he said haughtily. "I _never_ trip."

"Are you saying you did this on purpose, then?" she said in flirtatious challenge, jade eyes more storm-tossed in the low light of the bar.

"Clarissa, I would never," he said, and there was more yearning in his tone that he'd thought himself capable of, escalating the tension from playful to something languid and more dangerous.

"I should go," she said quickly, though not sounding particularly enthusiastic about the prospect. "This shirt isn't mine, so—"

"Of course," he said, flashing what he hoped was a easy, careless grin. "See you Monday."

She smiled, and there was something in it that made Jace want to give everything up and live as a Mundane beside her.

"Nice to meet you."

She disappeared towards the washroom, and which point Jace turned to find the asshole who'd bumped him. Maybe he'd punch him in the face; it'd been an age since he'd had a proper fight. However, when he turned, it was to find a familiar figure standing behind him. Alec's expression was stony.

"Really?"


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Clary sat with Jace's jacket in her lap, drawing out her notebook and pens and actively fighting the urge to look at the door for approximately the millionth time. It was five minutes til, and at Clary had begun to worry Jace wouldn't show. She had no reason to think he wouldn't—he'd never missed a class before, so far as she was aware—but he was nowhere in sight. It was annoying he'd picked today of all days to be absent. More annoying still, she was mildly gutted about it.

Urging herself to pull it together, she glanced at the door for a final time before turning back to professor, who'd finally begun to lecture.

"Looking for me?"

She started at Jace's voice in her ear as he gracefully leapt over the chair and down into the empty seat beside her.

"How did you do that?" she asked in reply, not wanting to admit she had been.

"Do what?" he said, flashing another grin.

"Sneak up on me like that!" she hissed. "You scared the _Hell_ out of me."

"I've been told by doctors I may be part cat," he said in a low, casual tone, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. "Long story, but not a cause for any real alarm."

She snorted back her laughter and continued setting up as she realised he had nothing with him.

"You're not going to take notes?"

He raised his eyebrows in a sardonic expression.

"Have you ever seen me take them before?"

"I don't know," she shot back in a breezy whisper, scrawling the date at the top of her page. "I haven't been watching you as closely as you clearly watch me."

He laughed.

"Touché."

By this time the class had begun in earnest, and Clary tried to ignore Jace as she began to scribble down dates and figures. Halfway through class a small note fell across her page and she unfolded it.

 _Less writing, more drawing,_ it said, and she crumpled it up and threw it back at Jace, making him laugh.

Jace was out of his seat the minute the professor was done talking, as if sitting still for so long had been physically painful for him. Clary watched in amusement as he cracked his knuckles and stretched, though she felt her throat tighten slightly when he raised his arms over his head, revealing the roped muscles of his obliques where they cut into his trip hips and disappeared below the waistband of his low slung jeans. She looked away quickly, hoping he hadn't noticed her admiring him.

"Here's your jacket back," she said, offering it to him.

He accepted it and put it on before putting a nose to the sleeve.

"Did you have it drycleaned?" he said, laughing. "Not necessary."

"I felt bad you had to walk home that night without it," she said.

"I'm sure I'm still better off than you would have been in wet lace. Besides, I live over on the East Side; it was a short trip."

Clary wondered if he had roommates; he didn't really seem the type that would, though it was a rare college student indeed who could afford to live in Manhattan alone.

"Coffee?" Jace said as they stepped out of the Silver Building on onto Washington Square.

"What?" Clary said almost stupidly. Somehow she hadn't expect him to ask her that.

"Would you like a cup of coffee?"

He was gesturing to a street cart and pulling out his wallet.

"Oh, you don't have to. I mean, I can buy—"

He smiled.

"Calm down, Gloria Steinem, I'm wasn't trying to offend you. But it's early, and I thought you might be thirsty and fancy a cup."

Clary felt stupid for getting so flustered. It wasn't like her to get flustered over attention.

"Okay, yeah," she said, trying to sound casual as she flicked her coppery braid of her shoulder to avoid fiddling with it nervously. "Thanks."

He smiled and extended her a cup.

"Cream or sugar or anything?"

"No thanks," she said. Her mother had always drank it black, so she had, too.

"Where are you headed now?" he asked, glancing at an antique wristwatch before taking a sip of his own.

"Courant. I have Calculus with Davis."

Jace smiled knowingly.

"I heard he's a real hard ass."

Clary smiled.

"He's yelled at one girl in my class about three times last week"

Jace's lips quirked up in a expression a private amusement.

"I bet she deserved it. I'll walk with you."

She tried not to read into the gesture.

"You don't have class?"

"Mondays are light for me. Why, are you trying to get rid of me?"

"As if it were that easy," she said, and he smiled, eyes glittering appreciatively.

"Walked straight into that, didn't I?"

They lapsed into silent for several steps before Clary blurted,"Where are you from?"

He seemed mildly taken aback.

"Sorry?"

"Your accent," she explained. "Is it—Australian?"

He shook his head quickly.

"South African."

"Damn," she said in a light tone. "I'm usually so good at that."

"You are," he said in the same light tone, though there was something slightly guarded in his voice now. "I didn't realise I even had an accent anymore."

"My mom was from England," she explained, remembering Jocelyn's undulating voice and trying not to be too pained. "I guess I like to think it makes it easier for me to hear them. So are you just here for school or—"

"No," he said quickly again, and it seemed as if he was consciously fighting to keep his tone conversational. Still, he seemed flustered. Well, not flustered, exactly; he was too suave for something so undignified. But certainly caught off guard, as if he'd never expected her to ask.

"My mum died when I was a baby and my dad died when I was ten," he went on reluctantly when he realised she was waiting for more of an explanation "That's the last time I was back—home."

"I'm sorry," she said, and his brows knitted in confusion, as if it were an odd thing to say.

"It's not your fault," he said in a flat voice, and she could sense it wasn't something he was particularly eager to discuss.

"My mom just died, too," she said softly after a beat of silence. "Hit by a drunk driver."

He looked sympathetic, but his amber eyes remained keen.

"And you father?"

She glanced up, not expecting this question.

"I never knew him, and my mom never wanted to talk about him. I don't even know his name. I grew up with my stepdad, though; he and I are very close."

He nodded, not the way people do when they don't know how to react to tragic news, but like a person who understood what she'd been through. It was something she didn't realise she'd been craving until that very moment, and it was cathartic.

"How old are you?" she blurted then, and he turned, smiling.

"How old do I look?" he asked, seemingly amused.

She took the opportunity to study his face again, all symmetry and soft angles.

"I have no idea," she admitted.

There were no wrinkles around his eyes, lips, or across his forehead, but he still had an air of self-assurance than made him seem much older.

He laughed. "Should I be offended?"

She laughed, too, though a bit sheepishly

"It's not that you look old or anything, there's just—" she paused, realising she had no idea how to aticulate when she meant. "Something about you."

He considered this with a thoughtful expression, and she was relieved not to be dismissed out of hand, though she could feel a flush creeping up her cheeks as she ruminated under his gaze.

"What kind of something?"

She thought about that oddly familiar edge to him she'd seen the first time she'd really looked at him. She wondered if she could see it again if she looked hard enough, or if he'd hidden it away. Maybe it had never existed at all, and she was trying to make something significant and meaningful out of the fact that he was incredibly hot.

"It's hard to explain," she finished, but he nodded anyways.

"I think I understand," he said finally, and her stomach constricted tightly in anticipation of understanding the Otherness that always seemed to cloak him.

"You do?"

He smirked, the thoughtfulness in his features replaced by self satisfaction.

"You've never met someone with this much charm and sexual charisma, and you're overwhelmed."

She bubbled her lips as her eyes rolled back far enough to reveal white. Whatever realness had been resonated between them seemed to dissipate into something more mundane.

"You think you're pretty hot stuff, don't you?" she asked in a dry tone.

At this, the smirk widened into a toothy grin.

"Fray, I'm the hottest stuff you're ever liable to meet."

She could tell he'd expected her to blush and look a way at this, but she didn't. She gave him a pursed-lip smile instead.

"Doubtful," she scoffed. "And how did you know my last name?"

"It's written on your notebook," he shot back easily. "Are you really telling me you don't think I'm hot? You really know how to break a guy's heart."

She gave a cool laugh.

"Don't tell me I'm the first girl who's even said 'no' to you before."

"Not the first, maybe," he said, raising his eyebrows. "But definitely no more than the sixth or seventh."

She rolled her eyes again, but there was no malice in the gesture.

"You still haven't answered my question," she pointed out.

"Which was? I've completely forgotten."

"How old are you?"

"Twenty-one. Why, how old are you? Fourteen?"

He attempted to rest an elbow on the top of her head, which barely brushed the top of his shoulder, and she shoved him playfully.

"How dare you," she said as they entered the math building. "I was the tallest kid in my four grade class."

He smirked knowingly.

"Let me guess; you've grown about an inch since then."

"No," she said, nudging him playfully as he continued pretending to measure her. "I've grown _half_ an inch."

He gave an unguarded laugh, and she instantly decided it was a sound she wanted to hear more often. They were almost to her classroom now, but she ignored the twinge of disappointment at knowing their time together was nearly spent. Luckily the class didn't start for another five minutes, and the professor had yet to arrive, so students were still milling around.

"Door-to-door service," she said, "Very thorough."

He shrugged.

"I take campus security very seriously."

She gave a deadpan look that made him laugh again, and it was so lovely she had to fight not to smile herself.

"It's 10 am."

He pursed his lips.

"And you're the height and weight of a middle-schooler. Honestly, Fray; you could be abducted by a schoolyard bully with a grudge."

She crossed her arms to hide the pittance this comment had caused in her stomach, but as she watched his eyes slip from the column of her throat to the edge of her lacy bralette, now visible above the neckline of her loose sweater, it disappeared. He seemed to realise he'd been caught looking, and he laughed softly and ran a hand through his thick tawny hair. She doubted he was capable of looking truly embarrassed, but he at least had the decency to look sheepish. What did it say about her, she wondered, that she'd wanted him to look? Maybe just that she was a feminist, and she didn't have to apologise for wanting what everyone did: to be physically appreciated.

"Well thank you for the coffee," she said finally, and he smiled.

"My pleasure. Thanks for dry cleaning my jacket."

"Anytime."

He smirked, and she could tell that he was getting ready to make a joke about spilling a drink on her when his eyes flashed, snagging on something over her shoulder.

She turned, seeing the beautiful girl the professor was always yelling at for being late staring at them. Her eyes were none-too-friendly, and Clary realised she seemed to know Jace. Innocuous though this should have been, it stung like new skin after a scrape. Jace's body language changed immediately, and Clary fought not to tense as well.

 _You couldn't really have expect someone like him to be single, could you? Besides, he was just being friendly._

Jace's eyes finally snapped back to Clary, and this time she did flush. All the light in them before was gone, and they were flat.

"I should go," he said shortly. "See you around, Fray."

With that, he was gone.

* * *

Jace woke to his phone buzzing and groaned before blearily glancing at the clock on his bedside table. It was still early, and more important than that, it was Saturday. Annoyed, he answered the call.

"What do you want, Is?" he asked, eying falling closed again.

"Oh thank the Angel you're awake," came the reply.

"I'm not," he said. "So this better be important."

"It is! I need your help."

Immediately he sat up.

"What's going on? Are you in trouble?"

"Well no, but I'm going to be. Alec's going to kill me!"

Jace flopped back.

"Goodbye, Isabelle."

"Wait, please! I'm on Fray duty in half an hour and I'm still in Boston!"

Jace laughed, rubbing his eyes.

"Boston?" he repeated mirthfully. "What are you—no, you know what? Nevermind; I don't want to know."

"Stop laughing and help me!" she whined.

"I don't know what you expect me to do!" he said, continuing to laugh. "I hate to disappoint you, but I didn't magically inherit the ability to portal overnight."

"You could cover for me," she pointed out, and there was silence as he considered.

Isabelle had lectured him for half an hour Monday afternoon about walking Clary to class, and since then he'd been forced to keep his polite distance. However, the desire to spend more time with her was back and stronger than ever, and he couldn't deny the temptation to do so without the distraction of school or class was fairly overwhelming.

"Please," Isabelle said. "I met someone I really like, and he's taking me on a tour of the Harbour. Besides, I know you want to. I saw the way you were looking at her on Monday."

"I thought you said that was a bad idea. I thought you said I should keep my distance, or you'd tell Alec."

"I did, but I won't tell him if you don't."

Jace paused, even knowing what his answer would be.

"Do you know where she'll be?"

"She goes to a hot yoga class at the 404 gym in the Village. It starts at nine."

He laughed and prepared to object, but when the image of Clary glistening with sweat in nothing but a sports bra and athletic pants popped into his head, he bit back his distain.

"Fine," he said.

She squealed.

"You'll really do it?"

"Yes, but you owe me one. Also, I don't suppose I have to say it, but I will anyway: don't tell Alec."

"I won't! Thank you, J! You can borrow my mat; it's in my room."

"Just so we're clear," Jace said, rising from the bed and putting on boxer briefs. "We are never to speak of this again."

"Understood," she said, clearly distracted now that she'd gotten her way.

"I mean it, Is. At no point in the future are you allowed to tell Alec I did yoga."

"Don't be so gender rigid," she said. "Boys can do yoga, too, you know."

"That wasn't an answer."

"Fine, whatever, I swear. Gotta go! Have fun!"

"You owe me one," Jace said. "Don't forget."

The line clicked off and he threw the phone down, consulting the clock on the wall before stepping into athletic shorts. He considered taking a shower, but it didn't seem worth it if he was going to sweat, so he simply threw a zip up over his bare chest instead, smoothing his hair back and putting on a backwards hat before heeling into boots; Shadowhunters didn't believe in trainers, and he would have sooner died than worn a pair of those hideous open-toed sandals Mundy guys were always wearing. Not that he had much room to talk, he realised as he saw his reflection in the mirror. In the flat-billed hat and wayfarer glasses, he looked ever bit the Mundy frat boy himself. Still, there was nothing to be done for it now, so checking the clock a final time, he went to Isabelle's room and grabbed her rolled up mat from amongst the wreckage and set off for the Village.

* * *

Clary arrived at yoga about ten til, her mat tucked under one arm and her water bottle in the other. It was decently full with people about fairly distributed across both genders, and before she could stop herself, Clary looked around for the beautiful girl from her Calc class; the one who knew Jace. She wasn't in her usual spot near the mirror, and Clary feel a pang of relief, though it was quickly dashed by an image of the girl lying naked in bed next to him. Now somewhat sullen at the thought, she continued scanning the room for a spot for her own mat, nearly laughing out loud when she saw Jace himself tucked into the corner. He was sitting on his mat still wearing a backwards hat and what looked like work boots, seeming none-too-pleased to be there.

Casually, she approached dropping her mat beside his.

"Be honest," she said when he looked up and smirked. "Are you stalking me?"

"Would you be mad if I was?" he said with a flirtatious smile, and she rolled her eyes.

"Oh c'mon, Fray, don't be like that; you don't own the ancient art of yoga."

"So I'm honestly supposed to believe this isn't your first time in a yoga studio?" she ask, laying out her mat carefully before settling on top of it.

He gave a self-important snort.

"Of course it isn't."

"Okay," she said. "Then name _one_ pose."

He considered before a moment before answering.

"Chakra."

She laughed, and he looked please at having made her do so.

"Nice try. Those are the spiritual centers of the body."

"Shanti?" he ventured with less confidence.

"An invocation of peace. And you're supposed to say it three times for peace of body, speech, and mind."

"What the hell is peace of body even mean?" he said, and she laughed.

"I knew it!"

"Okay, fine," he conceded, infecting by her good spirits. "I was supposed to come with my friend Isabelle, but I was already here by the time she bailed."

"Oh," Clary said, fiercely feigning indifference. Of course the beautiful brunette's name was Isabelle. It was lush and exotic, just like she was.

"Satisfied?" he said, playfully seeking to catch her gaze again, and she forced a breezy smile. Clary Fray was a lot of things, but jealous she was not. Besides, it felt wrong to harbor resentment in a yoga studio.

 _Shanti, shanti, shanti_ , she told herself.

"No," she replied. "But I will be when I get to watch you make a fool of yourself. It's not as easy as it looks."

The instructor had arrived by now, turning on the music and turning up the heat as she welcomed the class.

"I think I'll be fine," Jace said, kicking off the boots and taking off his hat before smoothing his hair back. "I'm a quick study. Feel free to watch me anyways, though; I _love_ a captive audience."

With that he unzipped his hoodie to reveal his perfectly formed torso. Clary could see that in addition to the tattoo on his neck he had several more criss-crossed across his arms, back, and chest. Something about them seemed to call to Clary, as if she'd seen them before. Or perhaps it was the canvas that was calling to her. Jace's skin was bronze and smooth, and the desire to touch him was fairly overwhelming. However, not to be flustered or outdone, Clary took off her own pullover and tossed it carelessly aside, leaving her in a simple sports bra and yoga pants. When she felt Jace drinking her in, she smirked inwardly.

By now the class had begun in earnest, and Clary did her best to pay attention and lose herself in the poses. However, she found her eyes snapping often to Jace. It wasn't so much because he looked like a gilted Bernini sculpture come to life (though he did) but the way he moved. It was graceful and hypnotic, and he hadn't been lying; he was a fast learner. He seemed to adapt the poses with ease, and for guy, he was surprisingly limber.

When it was over, he ran two hands through his damp hair to push it back into place before putting his hat back on. He then turned to Clary, grinning.

"I admit that was harder than I anticipated," he said, watching her keenly as she re-braided her own sweaty hair and shrugged her soft pullover back on.

"Please," she said, bending to pick up her mat. "You were annoyingly good and you know it."

He'd yet to zip up his hoodie, and she couldn't help tracing the mosaic of muscles in his stomach with her eyes.

"Careful," he said playfully as they walked into the blissfully cool lobby. "That almost felt like a compliment."

"It was an observation," she corrected. "Something tells me that you give yourself more than enough self-congratulations. I wouldn't want to pile on."

"What's wrong with that?" he asked, blowing himself a kiss in the mirror and making her laugh. "In case you haven't heard, self love is the best love."

She laughed again, pretending not to notice as he finally zipped his hoodie. In truth it was slightly disappointing.

"There's a masturbation joke in there somewhere," she observed dryly. "I'm just too lazy to look for it."

He gave her a look of mock surprise.

"Saucy, Fray!"

"Oh I forgot; you think I'm still in middle-school."

"I said you were the size of one," he corrected. "Never said you had the mind of one."

She pursed her lips, trying and failing not to feel stung by this conversation again.

"Just for future reference, no woman wants to hear she has the body of a twelve-year-old boy."

His eyes darkened slightly as his eyes raked from her feet to her braid.

"I definitely never said that, either," he said a little huskily, and the words went right to her core. For an absurd moment she considered pushing him up against the wall and kissing him just to see what he would do, but when she remembered Isabelle, she stayed where she was, even looking away a little.

"So," he said when they emerged onto the street. It was unseasonably warn for early October, and the sun felt good on Clary's face. "What's a Saturday in the life for Clarissa Fray?"

"I'm going to the studio now to work on a drawing for my still life class," Clary said, feeling generally unenthused about the prospect, firstly because drawing still lifes were tedious, and second because it meant their time together was drawing to a close.

"You're a studio major," he observed. "I should have guessed; you have the best doodles."

"Thanks."

"So you're you're you're just going to locked yourself in your studio all weekend?" Jace pressed. "Leonardo would be proud. Dr. Leonard, too, I imagine."

She smiled, thinking of his impression of their tired old professor and fighting not to laugh.

"No, tonight I'm going to a party down in the Financial District; some rich guy my roommate knows."

"Sounds very exclusive," he said.

"You wouldn't want to come, would you?" she blurted.

"What?" he said, seeming genuinely confused and making her feel stupid for asking.

"I mean, you could invite your girlfriend, too. Maia said the more the merrier."

Now he looked doubly confused.

"My girlfriend?"

"Yeah," she said, trying to sound nonchalant and only managing to sound breathy instead. "Isabelle?"

At this his expression changed, and he laughed.

"Oh God, she is _not_ my girlfriend."

Clary ignored how buoyant the admission had made her feel.

"A likely story," she said, and he grinned.

"No really; her parents adopted me when I was ten. I grew up with her and her brothers. Besides, I would never go for a girl like Is; I love her, she's vain and annoying."

"Said the black pot to the kettle," Clary teased, feeling a little giddy now.

"Ouch!" he said in mock pain. "I'm not annoying."

"Not going to defend against being vain, though, I see."

He shrugged, giving her an arrogant but frustratingly handsome smile.

"I prefer the term 'dangerously self-assured'."

"I see," she said, and he leaned down to whisper in her ear.

"Tell me you don't love it and maybe I'll stop."

She fought down a pleasurable shudder before pushing him away playfully.

"Is that a yes to the party?"

"Depends. Would you like me to go?"

"Would I have invited you if I didn't?"

He smiled the way a chess player did at meeting a fairly matched opponent.

"That wasn't an answer, Fray."

He was leaning down to catch her gaze, and when she turned to look at him, his eyes flicked to her lips, making her throat suddenly dry.

"Yes," she honestly, watching his eyes flick down again and wishing despite everything that he'd kiss her right here in the street.

"Then I wouldn't dream of being elsewhere," he said in a voice that was a mixture of playful and seductive.

"Great," she said, fishing in her bag for her phone to hide her flush. "I'll text yo—"

He was already tugging the phone from her hands and entering his number, though his eyes had yet to leave her face.

"Just send me your address and I'll meet you at your place; it's really not safe for a little thing like you to be riding the train downtown at night."

He handed her phone back, smirking in self-satisfaction.

"Thanks Dad," she managed to say and he raised his eyebrows before winking.

"Kinky. See you tonight, Fray."

He put on his sunglasses before waving casually and striding up the street.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

As soon as Clary was out of earshot, Jace swore so loudly and with such creative filth that several passersbys on the street stopped to give him a dirty look. Today was technically his day off from watching Clary, which meant that if he wanted to go to the party with her, he was going to have to give either Alec or Isabelle the slip. He swore again for good measure, even as his phone buzzed. He glanced down at it.

 _25 Union Square West. Meet you out front at nine._

He swore a third time, but before he could reply to Clary, another message came through from Isabelle.

 _How was yoga? Get your Chakras aligned?_ it read, with a smiling devil emoji next to it.

 _Still probably less gross than the Boston Harbour,_ he sent back. _Who's on duty tonight?_

He watched the pulsing ellipsis which signified she was still typing.

"C'mon, Is, type faster," he growled to himself.

Finally, her reply came through.

 _Me. It was supposed to be Alec, but he has a dinner at The Institute with Mom and Dad,_ Isabelle had written, and he practically laughed out loud in relief.

 _Lucky him,_ Jace said simply, biting his lip and trying to play out his next move.

 _Why do you ask?_

He considered.

 _I'm calling in my favour. Switch with me._

No sooner had he sent it then his phone began to ring, and he rolled his eyes.

"Are you crazy?" Isabelle demanded when he answered. "No way!"

"Yes, hello Isabelle. Lovely to hear your voice, too. How was Boston?"

"Jace," she warned. "Don't be glib."

"Oh c'mon, Is," he said. "It's not that big of a deal."

"Yes," she snarled. "It is. Do you have any idea how much trouble you'd be in if the Clave finds out you're been sneaking around with her?"

"Then I guess I just have to make sure they don't find out," he said.

"God, this is so you, you know that?" she demanded. "I swear part of you wants to get caught."

Jace scoffed.

"Not true. Honestly, you're overreacting."

"No I'm not," she said, voice sharp and breathy like it always was when she was upset. "This is serious, J. She's Valentine's _daughter,_ and she's strictly off limits!"

"You're acting like I'm trying to have my wicked way with her," Jace said, getting hot now, too.

"Well aren't you?"

"No!"

"Look, you've been reckless enough as-is. Can't you, for once in your life, just quit while you're ahead?"

"I don't remember you complaining when I bailed you out this morning," he pointed out fiercely.

She sighed.

"Clearly it was a mistake to ask you to do that. If I'd have known how far you were going to—"

"I'm not gonna sleep with her, alright?" he hissed. "Jesus, Isabelle!"

"I'm sorry, but I don't believe you. I've seen the way you look at her, and I'm telling you it's dangerous. Please, this is for your own good."

Jace sighed loudly, knowing he was frustrated in part because she was right; this was thin ice, and there was no telling how deep and cold the water below it could be. Still, Clary was quickly becoming his drug a choice, and like any good junkie, he was willing to put everything on the line for even once more dose of her.

"Fine," he said finally, letting some of the defeat he was feeling seep into his tone. "But you at least have to let me go tonight and break it off with her. You owe me that much at least."

There was silence on the other end of the line, and Jace clenched his jaw.

"Fine," Isabelle said finally, voice thin. "But make sure you do. I can't keep covering for you."

With that she hung up, and he released a stale breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding. It wasn't the ideal outcome, but all that really mattered to him was that he'd gotten what he'd wanted in the short term. The rest he could figure out quickly texted Clary agreeing that he'd be there before heading Uptown to the Institute. He was too keyed up to go back to the apartment and face Alec, or Isabelle when she got back, and he figured the only thing that could really calm him down was a good fight. Besides, he needed time to think through his next move, and for better or worse, he did his best thinking with a Seraph blade in his hand. He stayed at the Institute training for the better part of the afternoon, and the sun was nearly setting when he headed back to the apartment they shared in Midtown.

He stripped off the clothes he was wearing, which, between yoga and sparring, were soaked through with sweat, and stepped into the small shower, leaning his head back on the tiles as the room filled with steam. He knew rationally that Isabelle was right, and that this was only going to end in disaster. On the other hand, he was in the throes of something he'd never really known, and to turn his back on it now felt like a hideous betrayal of self. He groaned. That was to say nothing of Clary.

Before he could stop himself, he remembered how she'd looked damp and glistening in the yoga studio, and he imagined pinning her beneath him and listening to her cry his name. More than that, though, he imagined being able to spend real time with her, imagined sharing the Shadowhunter world— _her world_ _—_ with her. The idea was so tempting, it was enough to drive him crazy. Still, his father's voice echoed in his head as well. _To love is to destroy._ Clary's mother had given up everything to keep Clary from the dangers of their world; who was he to draw her back in?

By the time he stepped out of the shower the mirror was completely fogged up, and he wiped a small patch bare, examining himself. Shaking his head, he dried his hair with a towel before running pomade into it. When he was done, he crossed to his bedroom, swearing in surprise to find Isabelle sitting on the bed.

"Do you mind?" He said blandly. "I'm about to be naked."

She ignored him.

"Don't do this, J," she pleaded quietly, standing up to face him. "Please."

"Do what?" he said. "It's a party, not a marriage proposal."

"I know you thinking you're hiding whatever this is from me, but you're not. I know you, Jace Wayland."

He whirled on her, eyes hard.

"What do you want me to say? I already told you I'd break things off with her."

"Will you, though?" she pressed. "Jace, please look at me."

She attempted to grab his chin, and he pushed her hand away.

"You want to tell Alec and The Clave? Go ahead, be my guest."

"I don't," she said. "But I just want you to protect yourself. Please."

"I heard you the first time," Jace said, more coldly than he meant to.

She shook her head sadly, leaving the room and letting the door show behind her. When she was gone Jace grit his teeth, trying to brush aside her warning without being totally able to do so. She was right, after all. Deep down, she was right. She was so right, in fact, that he retrieved his phone from the pocket of his coat, meaning to text Clary and tell her right then he couldn't go, while he still had the nerve.

There was already a new text from Clary which read, _if you're late I won't share my AH notes with you for the midterm, and we both know you'll fail without them. xx_

The message itself was innocuous, but somehow it was still enough to overpower any good sense Jace had, and he tossed the phone back on the bed with a sigh.

He felt nominally more in control by the time he arrived outside The Carlyle Court residence hall, and he texted Clary. There was no reply, and just as he was preparing to ghost in behind some unsuspecting sophomore, she emerged through the door. It only took one look at her to quell any doubts he'd had about coming tonight. Tonight she wore a dress made of midnight blue velvet, and though it was not particularly short or tight, the hem and the generous neckline were edged with black lace, and the whole thing spoke vaguely of lingerie in the best possible way. When she saw him she smiled, and his stomach tightened.

"Good," she said congenially. "You're here."

"Don't get too excited," he warned her, fending off the desire to touch her silky hair. "I only came for my share of your notes."

She leaned forward a little, and he could see from the glimmer in her eye she'd already starting drinking a little.

"Liar," she said softly, and he smirked, unable to keep his gaze from sliding to her lips, which had been stained a becoming dusty rose.

Before he could make a move (or decide if he even wanted to) two more girls filed down the stairs. The first Jace recognised as Clary's roommate Maia. The second he didn't know, though it was clear from a glance that whoever she was, she was Maia's girlfriend.

"So," Maia said, sizing him up. "You must be Mr. Art History."

Clary flushed and swatted at her, but Jace smirked.

"Mr. Art History is my father. Please, call me Jace."

Maia snorted in amusement, though she shook his hand without malice.

"That can't honestly be your real name," she pointed out.

"Very astute," Jace said, feeling even more comfortable now that he had to opportunity for a verbal sparring match with what was clearly a fairly skilled opponent. "It's a nickname."

"Short for?" Maia pressed, ignoring Clary's gestures she stop.

"Honestly woman," Jace said in almost mock flirtation. "At least buy me dinner first."

"Alright, enough," the other girl—who Clary introduced as Jordan—interrupted, looking slightly sour. "She's spoken for, Romeo."

Jace intended to say more, but just then the door opened again, and three more boys shuffled down the stairs. Simon Lewis, the proverbial best friend, was at the forefront, and he gave Jace a solid look but said nothing. The look frankly surprised Jace. He'd expected it to full of jealousy and unrequited longing for Clary, but it wasn't. Instead it was direct and matter-of-fact, as if to say ' _hurt her, and I'll kill you_ '.

Jace raised his eyebrows. So they'd been wrong about him; he wasn't in love with Clary after all. He'd have to remember to tell Isabelle whenever they found time to stop fighting. She'd surely be amused.

"Simon," he said, extending his hand. His tone was not overly cordial, but it wasn't quite unfriendly either.

"Jace," Jace replied.

"Clary hardly ever stops talking about you," Simon said, and Jace couldn't help but grin, especially as Clary protested.

"All good things, I hope," he said, turning an giving Clary a wink only she could see.

Simon's jaw tightened, and he looked every bit the protective big brother.

"That remains to be seen."

"Stop talking about me like I'm not here and let's go," Clary said, pushing Simon up towards Maia, Jordan, and the other three guys Jace didn't know before falling in step with Jace himself.

"So you talk about me all the time, huh?" he said, nudging her shoulder.

"You wish, loverboy," she said as they swiped their metro cards at the Union Square station and descended into the belly of it to wait for the train downtown.

"Maybe I do," he said, and she looked at him to try and decide if he was being serious. However, eventually she smirked and rolled her eyes, and he couldn't decide if he was relieved or disappointed at her dismissal of the statement.

"So whose party?" Jace asked as they all boarded the train.

"An old friend of mine," Maia said flippantly, making Jordan purse her lips.

"Just say it," she said sourly. "He's an ex."

"He goes to Pace," Clary explained to Jace. "That's why he lives so far downtown."

"We can't all go to real college, am I right?" one of Simon's friends, who was indeed wearing an NYU sweatshirt, said, and the boys all laughed.

"Don't be such snobs," Maia chided lightly. "Besides, Bat doesn't need a good education; his dad is rich. Seriously, wait until you see this place."

By this time they'd arrived at Cortlandt Street, and they walked the three blocks over to the a impressive on Gold. Maia flashed a note and a smile to the doorman, and soon enough they were ascending an elevator and emerging out onto the rooftop, where the party was already in full swing.

"C'mon!" Maia urged Jordan, talking her by the arm and tugging her off. The boys disappeared into the throng, and when they were alone, figuratively speaking, Clary turned to Jace, smiling.

"Do you want something to drink? I'd say beer is probably the safest."

He considered. He wasn't much for beer, especially the cheap swill college students always seemed to drink. Still, the look in Clary's eyes in that moment would have been enough to convince him to drink crude oil.

"Please," he said, and she smiled and disappeared, and he found himself, out of habit, securing the perimetre. However, it was hardly necessary; it was a thoroughly Mundane party. Not a downworlder, demon, or Circle member in the bunch. Usually, that would bore him. After all, they weren't called Mundanes for naught. However, tonight he was glad. It meant there would be no distractions. Quickly he thought of his promise to Isabelle that he would break things off with Clary. He shook the thought off. That was a problem for a future Jace. After all, he was older and thus, wiser. Better he make the decision when the time came.

Clary had arrived back now carrying two plastic cups. She extended on to Jace, before pulling it back slightly.

"Wait," she said, eyes glittering with merriment. "You're not going to pour this down my cleavage again, are you?"

He smiled, tugging the cup gently away from her before clinking it to hers.

"Not unless you ask me to," he said huskily, and she bit her lip to hide a smile.

He wondered if she had any idea how desirable the gesture made her. He was absolutely desperate to kiss her, but knowing he shouldn't, he simply took an ambitious swallow of his drink instead, downing nearly the entire vile thing. Alcohol was not liable to make this situation any better longterm, but again, that felt like Future Jace's problem, no is.

"Clary!" Simon called from a distance. "We need you for pong!"

"C'mon," Clary said, taking Jace's hand and dragging him over to where tables were set up. Halfway there they passed a tray of shots, brightly colored and made of a semi-solid material, and Clary forced two into his hands.

"Ugh," he said in revulsion as material, whatever it was, wiggled in its glass. "What the fuck is this?"

"What kind of sheltered life does one have to lead to have never had a jello shot?" she asked.

"I'm not putting that in my mouth," he said firmly.

"That's what she said. C'mon, Jace, don't be a baby!"

He laughed despite himself, and she held the... _jello_ out to him.

"What will you give me if I do?" he asked in challenge, leaning down.

She stood on her tiptoes, leaning in enough so that her nose just barely brushed his.

"Why don't you try it and find out?"

With that he tipped his head back and emptied both shots into his mouth, gagging only once as he half-chewed, half-swallowed the hideous, strawberry flavored goo. It tasted horrible and had a bitter aftershock of cheap vodka.

"Baby's first jello shot," Clary said sardonically. "I'm so proud."

"Ugh," Jace said, taking a last swallow of his beer and wincing again. "That was so foul. You owe me one, Fray."

She shrugged, and took his hand again, weaving her tiny fingers through his as she pulled him towards where her friends were playing a game.

"I hope you're good at Pong," she was saying to him. "Because I'm pretty terrible."

Jace glanced at the table. There didn't seem to be any point to admitting he had no idea what she was talking about since the game seemed rather simple. Throw the balls into cups of beer.

He shoot her a winning smirk.

"I'm alright."

"That's what you said at yoga," she pointed out as they assembled their cups. "And then you were basically Bikram Choudhury."

He didn't know who that was, either, but he didn't care. Clary didn't want to come out and say it, but he could tell this was her way expressing admiration, and as much of it as he had received in his life, both from himself and others, it felt different coming from her. It felt _better._

Clary had been right in predicting that Jace would be excellent at the game, but she'd severely undersold her own skill at it. Jace was mesmerized watching her work, because he could see her shadowhunters ability shining through. Not that it was a athletic or even terribly skill-oriented game, but Clary had innate sense of space she knew how to command, and excellent hand-eye coordination. Jace imagined her with a bow like Alec's and his pulse trilled; she would be deadly.

He wasn't sure how long they ran the table before being narrowly beaten by a pair of frat boys in muscle t-shirts, despite the fact it was 50 degrees and October, but he was oddly relieved when they had. He was suddenly aware of how badly he wanted to have Clary to himself.

"I'm thirsty," Clary told him after the frat boy had insisted they shake hands, as if they're been playing a sanctioned sport. "Will you come to the kitchen with me?"

He nodded,and she shimmied through the glass door into one of the deserted bedrooms, which was empty. Silently the descending the staircase into the main body of the apartment, which was sumptuously appointed. Clary went to the fridge and got a glass of water before hopping up gently onto the counter to sit. Jace came to lean next to her, crossing his arms to keep from touching her. He knew if he did it would be game over, and he was still clinging to the allusion he could turn back and do as he'd promised Isabelle.

"I knew you'd be good at that," Clary said after a beat of silence. Jace glanced up at her in surprise to finding her studying him with scrutiny. "You're good at everything."

It was clear from her candor that she wasn't completely sober, but there was still a sharp alacrity in her gaze that told him she wasn't actually drunk.

"That's not true," he replied casually, angling his body a little to look at her. "Not everything. I can't blow a bubble with my gum, and I've been trying for years."

She laughed, the moonlight picking up the threads of gold in her eyes.

"That's it?"

He considered.

"I can't draw; especially not like you."

She gave a soft purr of self-satisfaction, and the noise sent a wave of pleasant heat roiling through his gut.

"No one can draw like me."

He raised his eyebrows, and she laughed, covering her mouth.

"I can't believe I said that. You're a bad influence on me, Jace _NicknameForSomethingSecret LastNameUnknown_."

He grinned.

"My last name is Wayland," he admitted. "And Jace is short for Jonathan Christopher."

"Not Johannes?" Clary asked, eyebrows knitted together.

Jace had forgotten he'd told her he was from South Africa. He felt a pit forming for lying to her, even knowing he hadn't had a choice; she couldn't know the truth, despite how badly he wanted to share it with her.

"I'm afraid not," he said simply, and she nodded, seeming to accept the answer without requiring more explanation.

They lapsed into silence for a moment.

"Would you ever draw me?" Jace heard himself ask.

She considered, turning to study him with an artist's gaze.

"You have the perfect face for it," she admitted, gently brushing her finger down the bridge of his nose. "You're all angles."

He gave a soft noise in the back of his throat and tipped his head back to give her better access.

"Is that your way of telling me you think I'm handsome?" he said as she trailed from his cheekbone to his jawline.

She laughed softly.

"You already know you are," she pointed out. "What do you need me for?"

She was tracing the curve on his ear now, and he shuddered in delight when her nails softly brushed his pulse point.

"Because," he said on an exhale, heart pounding now. "I care what you think of me."

At this her fingers sprayed out to twine in the hair at his nape, and he moved to stand between her splayed knees as his head tipped back to meet hers. She let out a soft breath of satisfaction, or perhaps pleasant surprise, as her mouth descended on his.

Some part of his brain told him to stop, told him that the minute he kissed her it would be over, and that he could be killing his career and his relationship with Alec and Maryse, but none of that seemed to matter. Her breath tasted like strawberries as it fell on his expectant lips, and he groaned in anticipation as she—

"Clary, there you ar— _oh_."

Jace growled in annoyance as Clary's hand fell away from him and they both turned to see Maia sending at the mouth of the stairs.

"Sorry to interrupt," she said pointedly. "But Simon is drunk, and he's trying to text that girl Maureen again. You know the freshman he—" she made a hand gesture Jace assume was meant to signify sex. "Anyways, I thought you might want to stop him."

"Ugh," Clary said, pushing Jace back gently so she could leap off the counter. She'd yet to really look at him. "Why does he only ever like emotionally unavailable girls? Okay, where is he?"

Maia indicated with her head, and Clary followed her. Jace, for his part, didn't move, and finally she turned to look at him.

"Are you coming?" Clary asked. Her tone was neutral, but he could see in her eyes it was an invitation, not a question.

He nodded, following them back up onto the roof. Simon was sitting alone on one of the pool chairs, one eyes closed as he attempted to see the screen of his phone. He was keeling slightly back and forth, like a cobra being coaxed from a basket.

"Hey Si," Clary said. "What are you doing?"

"No," he said, words slipping and sliding into one another, like sailors on a storm-tossed deck. "I want to—" he burped. "Maureen," he finished. "Don't try and stop me."

"You're drunk," Clary said, speaking as if he was a child. "Why don't you give me the phone. You can text her in the morning if you want."

"No!" he said petulantly as he rose to his feet, holding the phone over his head and out her small reach.

Clary glanced at Jace, and he came behind Simon, plucking the phone easily from his grasp.

"Hey!" Simon demanded, and Jace gave him a tight-lipped smile. The baser animal in him wanted to punch Simon in the face for ruining his kiss with Clary, but he knew it had probably had been for the best, and that it wasn't likely to win him points with Clary, anyway.

"You can thank me later," he told Simon.

"Why don't we go back?" Clary said.

"I'm fine," Simon said, though the end of a sentence was cut off by a dry heave.

"Here," Maia said, having returned with a bucket.

"I don't need—" Simon began, but when he heaved again, Clary took it and shoved it into his arms just as he emptied the contents of his stomach into it.

Jace was no stranger to unpleasant sights and smells, but he cringed as Simon vomited again.

When Clary eased it from his clammy grip.

"Feel better."

He nodded, looking pale and drawn.

"I want to go home."

She nodded.

"Of course." At this she turned to Jace, her gaze sympathetic. "I should—"

"I'll come with you," he said, and Clary strung an arm around Simon's waist as they picked their way back down the street.

Jace stepped out onto Maiden Lane and pressed two fingers to his lips, emitting a sharp whistle.

Clary, who was still holding Simon, gave a wry smile.

"Of course you can do that, too. Why am I not surprised?"

Despite everything, he smiled, too.

"There are still so many things you don't know about me, Fray."

By that time a cab had appeared, and she eased Simon into it.

"I know," she said softly as she slid in beside him. "But now you've got me curious to find out."

He got in beside her and slammed the door, and the cabbie turned to give them a hard look.

"He better not puke in here," the man warned, jabbing a finger at Simon.

"He won't," Jace snapped. "25 Union Square."

The man scowled and threw the car into drive, and Simon groaned, tipping his head into Clary's lap. She ran through hand through his hair soothingly. Jace looked away, fighting down an ugly green feeling he'd never really experienced until now.

"Why do I _always_ pick the bad girls?" Simon asked as the sped back uptown.

"We don't know," Clary said, though there was no malice in her tone. "Maia and I have been trying to figure it out for years."

She glanced over at Jace and smiled, and he felt his throat tighten. He wanted to say something to her, anything, but for once, he had nothing to say. The passed the rest of the ride in silence, and when they arrived outside the large dormitory building, Jace threw a twenty at the driver and stepped out. However, Simon had passed out cold, and despite Clary shaking, he wouldn't get up.

"Simon!" she hissed. "Stop being a baby and get up."

"I'm so sleepy," Simon protested, and Jace rolled his eyes, opening the opposite door, grabbing Simon by the wrist, and hauling him over his shoulder. Clary gave him an odd look and he shrugged.

"I do cross-fit," he explained casually, and she shook her head.

"Of course you do. C'mon, if the RA sees him we'll all be in trouble."

"Who's this 'we'?" Jace asked as she scanned her fob and pushed the door open for them. "Unlike you two lawbreakers, I'm well within my legal right to get hammered."

She gave him a look that was half playful, half exasperated.

"If I fall, I'm taking you with me," she said, and even though he knew it was a joke, something about it seemed to snap Jace out of a haze he felt he'd been under all night. Where he came from, falling meant something specific, and the Nephilim never used the term lightly. Where he came from, falling had real consequences, and it was a grave reminder of the fire he was playing with, being out with her tonight.

He clenched his jaw and nodded, following Clary to Simon's room and dumping him on the bed before handing his phone back to Clary, who plugged it in. She also tugged Simon's shoes off and set a glass of water on the table next to his bed.

"Feel better," she said, pressing a soft kiss on his forehead as she tugged his glasses off and set them next to the water. She then jerked her head to Jace, and they silently ascended two more floors to her own. When they reached her door, she made no move to go inside of it. Instead, she turned and leaning her head against it, looking up at him.

"I'm sorry about that," she said, and he shook his head.

"Don't be; it happens."

She bit her lip, and he could see worry in her eyes, see it settling across her shoulders like the mantle of a lead cloak. He wanted nothing more than to take it from her and bear it instead.

"Are you alright?" she asked finally. "You seem—out of sorts."

"I'm fine," he said in a flat voice. "I just—"

"If it's something I did," she cut him off. "Or said, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you."

He looked back at her, and she seemed sad and slightly damaged. He could here his father's voice. _To love is to destroy_. She was hurting because of him. Maybe Isabelle had been right; he should have quit while he was still ahead. He studied her but said nothing, and she turned, too proud to let him see the pain he causing her in her face.

"Well goodnight," she mumbled into the door, fumbling with the keys. "I'll see you Monday."

"Clary—" he began, but she shook her head, even giving a small laugh.

"No, it's fine. You're—fine."

"Clary," he said again, gripping her by the shoulder and turning her. "I—"

She looked up at him almost ruefully, and all resistance to whatever was resonating between them melted away. He tangled his hands in her hair and pressed her up against the door, mouth devouring her. She gave a small noise of surprise before bowing into him, tugging at the collar of his jacket as her teeth grazed his lip. He groaned and wrapped a hand around her back, lifting her off her feet and into his arms. He could feel his grip on everything he'd worked for, his career, his standing with the Clave, even his freedom, slipping away as they continued kissing, but somehow he couldn't bring himself to care.

Now at the perfect height to do so, she rotated her hips against his, and he groaned, the muscles in his stomach and legs tensing at the contact. He had to stop, or he was going to end up fucking her for the first time in the hallway. Breathlessly he eased her back to the floor, pulling back slightly. Her cheeks were stained pink and her chest was heaving, and he curled his hands into fists to keep them from tugging down the straps of her dress and devouring her. The desire to see her naked was almost overwhelming.

"Do you want to—" she began timidly, but he shook his head, touching her cheek. God, what had he just done? There was no quitting her now.

"I should go," he said hoarsely, brushing a knuckle down her cheek.

"Okay," she said, and he could tell she was confused. However, before she could ask a question, he pressed another searing kiss to her lips before turning abruptly and heading back down the hall, leaving her wantonly pressed against her door.

It was less than half a mile from her dorm to the apartment in Midtown, and he decided to walk to clear his head. Not that it mattered. He'd already crossed the line, and he would be damn if he was going to go back. Not that it mattered, there would be no mercy for him now anyway.

The apartment was dark when he entered and he set his keys on the counter, swearing softly to himself. At least he was alone. Alec must have still been at The Institute, and God only knew where Isabelle was. He made his way to his own room and turned on the light, and only years of hunting demons kept him from yelping in surprise.

"Jesus, Isabelle," he said, seeing her seated on the bed. "We really need to talk about boundaries."

She ignored his vitriol.

"Did you do it?' she said, rising. "Did you break it off with her?"

He turned, clenching his jaw.

"No."

"Are you going to?"

He didn't have to consider.

"No."

"Jace—"

"I can't, alright? I know this sounds crazy, but there's something about her that's—" he paused, running both hands through his hair. "That's _calling_ to me. It's like, there's always been something about me that's kept me apart from everyone else, but somehow now she has it, too, that same thing, and its pulling me to her. I feel it every time we're together, and I—I just can't walk away from it."

"I know," Isabelle said, tone full of sympathy. "But J—"

"Please," he interrupted. "Please don't say anything to the Council. Please, Is. I'm begging you."

She bit her lip, a war raging behind her dark eyes.

"Are you in love with her?"

"I don't know," Jace admitted, feeling foolish that he hadn't been able to outright deny it. "But I can't—I have to be around her."

Isabelle concerned this, expression pained.

"If The Council finds out, I can't protect you."

Jace nodded gravely.

"I'm no asking you to."

Isabelle nodded.

"Then I'll cover for you the best I can. I just hope you know what you're doing."

Jace bowed his head.

"So do I."


	5. Chapter 5

The following Monday, Clary stood in her mirror chewing her lip as she wound a hot iron through her coppery hair, turning her head from side to side to inspectthe curls she'd already done.

"What are you doing?" Maia said from a mass of bedsheets and pillows at the far side of the room.

Clary nearly dropped the hot wand in surprise. Maia hated mornings, and she and Clary rarely spoke before noon.

"What?" Clary said in a strangled yelp before clearing her throat.

"Since when do you curl your hair before 9 am?" Maia said, sounding almost offended at the prospect.

Clary began a fumbled excuse about a bad hair day when Maia sat bolt upright, grinning wickedly. Her textured hair was wild, but somehow it only made her look effortlessly stylish.

"Oh I see," she said. "You have _A_ _rt History_ this morning."

Clary fended off a flush by giving Maia a foul hand gesture, but the latter only laughed.

"So what ended up Saturday after you left Bat's? That kiss I interrupted look pretty steamy. Did you two—"

"No," Clary said quickly. She felt an unbidden rush of heat between her legs as she remembered Jace's body reacting to hers through his slim-fitting jeans. "It's not a big deal," she continued. "We didn't even talk yesterday."

"He didn't text you?" Maia asked, sounding offended.

"We're both adults; we don't have to be in constant contact. This isn't high school."

"Yeah," Maia said. "But you like him." Her tone was matter-of-fact.

Clary blushed, tossing her curls out in an effort to make them look tousled and sexy.

"So?" she said finally.

"So," Maia repeated in a firm tone. "Don't let him jerk you around, Clare."

"He's not. I'm—" Clary paused, not knowing quite what to say. If she was being honest with herself, she was somewhat disappointed she hadn't heard from him. Despite denying it, it stung a little. Maybe he'd gotten what he'd wanted, and he was bored with her. "I have to go," she said.

"Wait," Maia said, springing up. "Before you do—"

She grabbed a bottle of perfume off her dresser and sprayed it at Clary.

"Maia!" Clary said scowling, but Maia only shrugged.

"You're welcome. As you were, then!"

Clary shook her head and left the room, heading downstairs and towards the Arts and Sciences building. As she walked, she tried to think through her next move. Should she do as Maia suggested and demand to know what Jace's intentions were, or play it cool and pretend the kiss had meant nothing to her? Years of bad Cosmo advice urged her to do the latter, but deep down she knew it was nothing but male-centric propagandistic garbage. Besides, she didn't think she could, anyways.

Whatever was happening between them felt...different. At the risk of sounding like Juliet, who—let's be honest—had been a stupid pre-teen whose infatuation with a boy she'd known all of three days had led to the deaths of six people, Clary had a feeling she was starting to fall in love. Or maybe not love exactly—she hadn't dated enough to know what that was supposed to feel like—but she somehow felt as if she was discovering a part of herself she'd never really known existed until now. She knew now there was something different about her, and whatever it was, he had it, too. He suddenly felt like the key to unlocking that part of her, and she found herself desperate to be around him. That, and the fact she had the increasingly strong desire to see him naked. She imagining running her fingers over his bare skin, over the tattoos covering his chest and back, and she had to fight down a pleasurable shudder.

 _Pull it the fuck together_ , she told herself savagely as she passed through the columns adoring the facade of the building. Her panting over Jace and his private parts wasn't going to help the situation.

As she squared her shoulders and prepared to stride though the interior glass doors, she felt a jerk at her elbow, and someone was tugging her into the fat belly of the nearest column's shadow. She turned, preparing to fight off her assailant, before seeing who it was. Her shoulders dropped away from her ears even as she scowled.

"Miss me?" Jace said, teeth glinting as he angled his head down to kiss her.

"You _have_ to stop doing that," she said, pushing his face away playfully.

"Why? It's good for you; get's the oxygen pumping to the brain. Is that perfume new? You smell sinful."

He buried his nose in her neck, and she fought off a moan.

"What is wrong with you?" she demanded instead, and he grinned.

"No one knows; it's actually one of the medical community's most intriguing mysteries. C'mon, let's go. I want to take you somewhere."

"But we have class," she protested.

"Don't worry," he assured her. "The place I'm taking you is...art historical in nature."

"Jace!"

"Don't be such a square, Fray. it'll be fun."

"But I have Calculus after this."

"No you don't," he said in a matter-of-fact tone. "Isabelle has a note from the Health Centre. You have the flu, and apparantly it's _highly_ contagious."

He touched the back of his hand to her forehead and tutted like a school nurse.

"Jesus, you're burning up. Maybe I should get you out of this sweater..."

He playfully tugged at the hem, and she slapped his hand away, though she was laughing now.

"Behave, Wayland," she said, wanting nothing more than to let him pull the offending garment off.

He grinned, leaning down to brush his lips over the shell of her ear as his hand slid down to lightly grip her ass.

"This _is_ me behaving," he said, and she turned her head slightly, breathless.

"You're bad," she said as he bent his head to hers, giving her ass another squeeze. The movement brought their hips a breath closer, and Clary trilled at the contact.

"And you love it," he said, their breath mingling. She could only imagine how they must have looked to passers-by.

She angled her head back to receive his kiss, but after a moment she felt him pulling away, laughter reverberating through his chest.

"C'mon, you salacious wench," he said, giving her butt a playful slap.

He then took her hand, pulling her through Washington Square Park and towards the train station on 6th Avenue. They got on the A train heading North, and Clary frowned in confusion.

"Where are you taking me, Wayland?" she said, and he smiled, clearly pleased that she hadn't yet guessed.

"You're see," he said, winking at her.

Finally the train pulled into the station at 190th in The Bronx, and he grabbed her hand again.

"This is our stop," he said, and she furrowed her brow. "You still haven't figured it out yet?" he asked, delighted.

"It's not the zoo, is it?" she asked. "I hate the smell."

"It is not," he said as she followed him up the stairs.

They emerged at the mouth of a well-shaded walkway lined with trees. She recognised the park, and she turned to smile at him.

"Are you taking me to The Cloisters?"

Jace's grin widened.

"By god, I think she's got it."

The Cloisters was an extension of The Met housing exclusively Medieval works, and the building itself had been rebuilt, brick by brick, from a 12th century in France.

Jace offered his hand to Clary and she took it, feeling a small thrill as he intertwined their fingers.

"I didn't have you pegged as a fan of Medieval art," she said as they walked.

He smirked.

"I'm not. It's has just always been one of my favourite spots in the city. It's like—"

"A place out of time," she finished for him, and his amber eyes sparkled as he regarded her. She swore she could live the rest of her life off that look alone. She felt an erstwhile trust flowing between them, and it would be dangerously easy to slip into it and be carried away by its tide.

"Exactly," he said. "Besides, the grounds are beautiful. I thought it would be a nice place for you to draw."

He gently detangled their fingers to tuck a stray curl behind her ear, and she shuddered as his fingertips brushed her neck.

Jace paid for their tickets, and they traipsed through the space hand in hand, pointing and discussing all the works, some of which were gruesome, and some which were just downright bizarre. For all his apparent disinterest in art, Jace seemed to know a surprising amount Christianity. Clary, who'd been raised almost militantly agnostic, fond the way he talked about it fascinating. Despite his knowledge, there was no reverance in his tone, as if it meant nothing to him.

"Are you a Religious Studies major?" she asked finally.

They were sitting in the back courtyard which looked out onto Fort Tyron Park below, and Jace was perched on the stone half wall that seperated the manicured garden from the wild fauna beyond it. At her utterance he turned to look at her and laugh.

"What?" he demanded. " _Absolutely_ not."

Clary, who sat a ways off with charcoals and a sketch pad, laughed.

"Don't move!" she said.

Obediently he turned back, but she could hear the mirth in his tone even from a distance.

"You know, when I said you should draw me, obviously I meant completely naked."

"This isn't _Titanic_ ," she said in a dry voice.

"You know that reference means nothing to me," he said, and she laughed again.

"I didn't mean to offend you," she said in reference to her original question. "You just seem to know a lot about this stuff."

He shrug in a noncommittal fashion.

"My dad was very religious. And I'm not offended beyond knowing the social reputation of Religous Studies major. I mean, do I _look_ like an unintentional virgin to you?"

"Decidedly not," she said half to herself.

He turned to give her an absolutely sinful smile.

"Good," he said in self satisfaction. "Because I assure you, I am not."

"There," she said, ignoring his directness. "Finished."

He hopped off the wall as she drew finishing spray from her bag and coated the paper to keep the charcoal from smudging.

"It's amazing," he said in reverence, running a finger across the now semi-grossed service. "You're really talented, Fray."

"Thank you," she said, blushing.

"Can I keep it?" he asked, and she nodded, though she closed the notebook for now. "Are you hungry?" he asked.

It was well past noon now.

"Starving," she admitted.

"C'mon," he said, offering his hand again. "I have the perfect place."

They look the train back to midown and ordered food and a pitcher of beer, which Jace had managed to sweet talk from the bartender. When they were done, Jace sat back.

"Do you want to play pool?"

"I'm terrible," she said, and he smirked.

"I'll show you."

"Let me guess," she said dryly as he polished a cue self-importantly. "You're the reigning champion of your Midtown pool league."

"Sadly no," Jace sighed melodramatically. "I called the wrong pocket and some dumb Russian won."

She laughed.

"Okay Maestro," she said. "Show me how it's done."

He slid up behind her, easing the cue into her hand as his broad chest pressed into her back.

"First," he said, skimming a hand up her hip and breathing in her ear. "Bend over."

She couldn't fight down the shudder of his cool breath on her neck, and she heard him hum in self-satisfaction.

"Good girl," he purred. "Now imagine an invisible ball next to the ball that you want to sink into the pocket. Alright, Make a circle with the thumb and rest the cue on the top of your middle finger. Good, now shoot."

She did, and the rack broke apart neatly, sending two balls home.

"Nice, Fray," he said, stepping back. "You're a natural."

She raised her eyebrows, readjusting her hand position slightly and firing, knocking the two into the corner pocket. Quickly she lined up again, banking off the far wall and sending the four spinning in. He gave that unguarded laugh she'd been craving.

"You sly minx! Did you just hustle me?"

"We have a pool table in our basement. My stepdad's been teaching me since I was ten."

He laughed again.

"Clever, clever girl."

She smiled languidly, sauntering past him and leaning over the table again.

"Maybe I just wanted you to touch me."

His eyes darkened.

"Even better," he said. "Shall we make it interesting?"

She knocked another ball in.

"You're on."

It was nightfall by the time the reached Carlyle Court, and his phone buzzed as they ascended the steps.

"It's Isabelle," he said. "She has your homework assignment for Calculus. Should I tell her she has to do it for you?"

She laughed.

"Would she?"

Jace laughed now, too.

"Oh hell no. She's salty enough as it is."

"Why did she agree to help you, then?"

Jace considered.

"Let's just say she owed me one."

By this time they'd reached her door.

"Maia usually spend's the night at Jordan's dorm on Mondays," she said, feeling a twinge of nervousness now. "Do you...want to come in?"

He considered, blowing a bubble in the mint gum he was chewing and smirking when she gave him a dry look.

"Yes," he said before she could make a tart comment about it, advancing and urging her through the now open door.

It shut with a snap behind him, and he was kissing her the moment it did. His breath was fresh from the gum, and his lips were silky. Soon they alighted to her neck, and she moaned quietly when he grazed a sensitive spot.

"Now can I take your sweater off?" he said in a husky voice, and she raised her arms in answer.

He tugged it off her, biting his lip as he surveyed her small breasts and flat stomach.

"Jesus, you are beautiful," he said, tangled his hands in her hair.

In response, she tugged at his own sweater, and he pulled it off in a fluid motion. The black ink of his tattooes glittered agains this silky skin, the muscles beneath rippled as she touched him. Wasting no time, he urged her towards the bed as they heeled out of their shoes, and she automatically splayed her legs so he could settle between them as they continued to kiss.

After several minutes his deft fingers trailed down her side, though they stilled when he felt her tense.

"Just tell me when to stop," he said, but she shook her head, adjusting her hips a little.

"Keep going," she breathed.

Carefully he peeled her leggings down her bare legs, and suddenly she found herself thanking Maia, who was a dancer, for dragging her to get a brazilian wax the day before.

He kissed his way up and down her stomach, fingers dancing up her arms to the thin straps of her lace bralette. Carefully he peeled them down. She gave a sharp inhale as he pulled one of her nipples through his teeth.

She moaned, and she heard, or rather felt, him laugh, clearly pleased with her reaction. She felt her body reacting, and he must have felt it too, because his lips began to migrate down. finally he'd reached the waistband of her frilly underwear, and she whimpered as he tugged them down with his teeth.

"Oh god," she moaned, and he did laugh this time, his breath tickling her inner thighs.

"I haven't even gotten started yet," he said, flicking his tongue out and eliciting a cry.

His next stroke was more deliberate, and he grabbed her hips when she began to squirm, keeping her in place as his tongue began to work in earnest.

She balled the sheets in her fists as an orgasm began building. Clary has always imagined it as a glass being filled with water, and under Jace's expert machinations, it felt like the glass has been placed under gushing fountain. She felt the muscles in her abdomen tighten as she prepared to fall, but just as she tipped forward, he pulled back. Her centre continued to pulse, but only when the urgency of orgasm faded slightly did he continue. He expertly navigated this line two more times, and when she did finally come, she screamed.

Waves of pleasant heat rolled from her heaving breasts, which were now covered in a light sheen of sweat, to her curled toes, fizzling out of the ends like sparklers.

"Oh god," she said again as he kissed his way back up.

She couldn't even imagine what a mess she must of looked trembling and heaving, but Jace looked pleased. Slowly he bent to kiss her as he slunk to lay beside her.

"Are you alright, darling?" he said in a light, smug tone, tucking a loose tendril behind her ear. "You're trembling."

She gave a choked half laugh, half sob.

"Oh my god," she said, still lying flat on her back. She'd made no move to cover her nakedness, and he drew lazy circles across her chest, one my hand casually propping up his head. "I never had anyone—"

"Do that to you?" he offered.

She turned to look at him, unable to wipe the stupid grin off her face.

"Give me an orgasm."

He looked almost affronted for her sake.

"I mean, I've had them alone, but never when someone else was—"

"That makes me want to give you about five more right now," he said, and she gave a weak laugh.

"Please don't. I think I might die."

"Then just wait until I—" he broke off, nuzzling her neck. She mewed again, settling her head against his chest. His hand naturally migrated to her bare back.

"What are we doing?" she said softly after a beat of contented silence.

"What do you mean?" he said.

"I mean," she said, sitting up a little so she could meet his eye. "Is this just—" she trailed off before continuing. "It's fine if it is, I just need to know."

He studied her critically, brows knitted together. He ran a hand through her hair.

"No," he said in a serious tone. "I think we both know it isn't."

She nodded, and he leaned up to kiss her sweetly, pulling her head down with him so he could deepen it slightly.

"You're like a drug," he breathed, a look of uncharacteristic vulnerability in his eyes. "I can't have enough of you."

"But drugs are bad for you," she whispered back.

"Not all drugs," he said. "Some save your life."

Disarmed by his candor and how absolutely accurate that felt, she bent to kiss him. Maybe she was Juliet after all, though at this point she hardly cared.

Just as she was considering whether or not she wanted to escalate things, his phone buzzed from the bedside table. He reached to grab it, but made no move to hide it from her.

 _Where the fuck are you?_ it said.

"Who's Alec?" she asked, and he chuckled.

"Izzy's brother. He's—kind of a pill."

"He's the mom of the apartment, huh?" she said, sitting up a little as he responded.

"The ultimate helicopter parent," Jace agreed. "I should go."

She nodded, standing and looking for her forgotten underwear. However, Jace spotted them first. She reached for them, but he got there first, tucking them into his pocket.

"I'm keeping these," he said wickedly.

"You can't be serious."

"I'm always serious," he said, rising his eyebrows. He looked like Lucifer the moment before he fell, and it was a desperately good look on him. "What's your schedule tomorrow? I want to take you to breakfast."

"I don't have class until noon," she said, and he grinned, bending to brush his lips to hers.

"Perfect. I'll meet you here at nine."

She smiled, eying slipping closed as he brushed her cheek.

"See you then," she said dreamily, and he gave a hum of agreement.

"Goodnight," he said, shrugging his shirt back on.

With that, he disappeared.

* * *

Alec was in a predictable state when Jace finally arrived back. Isabelle looked annoyed, too, though she didn't say anything.

"Okay, seriously?" Alec demanded. "Where the hell have you been all day?"

"Out," Jace said flippantly.

"That's it?" Alec said. "Out?"

"I'm a grown man, Alec," Jace said in a thin voice. "I don't have to check in."

"First Izzy, now you," Alec said. "Honestly, do either of you even care about that fact we are here on _assignment_?"

"Watching Fray is far from a full time job," Jace snapped, wanting to keep Clary out of it as much as possible. "And she was sick today, anyway. What was I supposed to do, sit vigil at her fucking bedside?"

At this Isabelle's eyes flashed, as if warning him to back down.

"I need you to focus, J. Valentine could—"

"Valentine nothing!" Jace said. "He obviously has no idea where Clary is, and if he does, he doesn't fucking care."

"Oh Clary?" Alec said. "It's _Clary_ now?"

Jace rolled his eyes in lieu of responding. He knew he'd slipped up, but he couldn't betray it to Alec. He could feel tiny cracks spidering through the ice he was standing on.

"That's what everyone calls her," Jace said. "Jesus Alec, loosen up."

He turned to storm off, but Alec was on him, tugging Clary's frilly little underpants from where they were peeking out of his back pocket.

"What, like you? God, Jace, I _swear._ "

"Okay, fine!" Jace said, hoping that danger and harm really were negatively correlated. "You caught me. Happy, mother?"

"Who is she?" Alec snapped. "Tell me; I want to know."

"Just a random Seelie slut," Jace said, feeling sick for even saying it. Still, he had to, for Clary's sake as much as his. "It didn't mean anything."

"Get your head in the game, Wayland," Alec said in disgust, hurling the underwear at Jace's feet. "Or I swear on the angel, I will get you stuck on cleaning duty until you're so old no girl will even want to sleep with you."

"Whatever," Jace said, ignoring Isabelle's hard look as he stormed past Alec and slammed his bedroom drawer.

When he was alone he flopped face first onto the bed. He hadn't realised it, but his heart was hammering in his chest, threatening to break free from its cage. That was way too close. Still, it did nothing to deter him. He'd sooner be deruined than quit Clary now.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Clary stood in the shower on her tip-toes, purring in contentment as Jace washed the shampoo from her hair before bending to kiss her. His movements were languid, and Clary gave a soft exhale against his parted lips. They'd been seeing each other for two months now, and despite what had happened between them the day they'd gone to the Cloisters, they'd been taking things slow since then. Still, that didn't mean things weren't progressing at all. Jace had begun staying over more and more frequently, and it had inevitably led them here, to showering together.

Clary would never forget the first time she'd seen Jace fully naked. Between figure drawing classes and her own (admittedly limited) experience, he wasn't the first guy she'd seen without his clothes on. However, he was, without doubt, the best. He was all lean muscle, and she was mesmerised by the way they interlocked, the eye gracefully pulled from his hard, flat pectorals to the ridges of his stomach, to the bands of his obliques and the lithe swell of his quadriceps and calves.

Beyond his physique, though, Jace was the first guy Clary'd really _looked_ _at_ naked. The first time they'd showered together hadn't been the first time she'd touched... _him_ , but that had always been in her bed in the dark. It had been a completely different story in the well-lit bathroom of her dorm. She'd blushed furiously when he'd taken off his black boxer briefs but forced herself not to look away, drinking him in instead. He didn't fidget under her gaze as she studied him, though he'd groaned when she'd reached forward, brushing the silky tip of his length before gripping him with more purpose.

That had been almost a month ago, and now Clary was familiar with Jace's body she could have drawn it from memory. This familiarity had been accompanied by the desire to allow him to know her in a way no one ever had before. They'd been dancing around it for weeks, and Jace seemed to sense—though they'd never formally discussed it—that she wasn't ready. However, she realised as he wrapped his arms around her, skin warm from the heat of the water, that she finally was. Maybe not this morning, but soon. He gave a hiss of pleasure as she ground against him.

"Easy, love," he said, half laughing, half groaning at her deliberate minstrations. As he'd grown more comfortable around her, she noticed, his accent had grown more pronounced, and it was a desperately charming addition to his smooth, rich voice. "I thought you said you were in a hurry this morning. That you didn't have time to—" he took a sharp inhale as she wrapped a hand around him and began to make long, meaningful strokes. "—mess around."

"Simon will probably be late, anyway," she said, kissing his slick chest before sinking to her knees. "And it's just a study date; he'll live."

She finally put her mouth to work.

"Oh God," he said in a choked voice, and she stilled at once.

"I'm sorry," she said, looking up at him though wet lashes. "Am I hurting you?"

He tipped his head back onto the faded blue tiles and gave a hoarse half laugh.

"Exactly the opposite," he said, and Clary resumed what she'd been doing before, eliciting another low groan from Jace.

Clary didn't like to dwell on how much experience Jace had (even as she reaped the rewards of his _many_ skills), but she couldn't deny how satisfying it was to listen to him moan her name and know she was able to give him the same pleasure he gave her.

She felt the muscles in his stomach and legs contract to signal he was close. Urged on by this, Clary relaxed her throat as best she could before beginning to hum. It was a trick Maia had shared with her when Clary had rather sheepishly approached her for advice, and just as Maia had promised, it seemed to drive Jace wild. He swore as the vibrations swirled up her throat, and he threaded a hand through Clary's wet hair as he finished.

Clary smiled as she ran her hands up his chest and he shuddered.

"Are you alright, darling?" she said in a imitation of his light, smug tone. "You're _trembling_."

He grinned and spun them so her back was to the wall instead.

"You're going to be the death of me, Fray," he said, kissing her neck.

"Maybe you ought to hold your applause until after the grand finale."

His eyes snapped to her face and he groaned, fingers between her legs at once.

"You can't stay stuff like that to me when we're naked or I'm going to—"

"For the last time, Fray!" a shrill voice interrupted through the curtain. It was Carolyn, Clary and Maia's uptight neighbor who lived across the hall. "You can't bring your boyfriend in here! Next time I _am_ going to report you to Res Life!"

Clary clapped a hand over Jace's mouth as he began to laugh.

"Sounds good, Carolyn," she choked, trying and failing to keep the mirth from her tone. "Have a super day!"

They heard Carolyn huff and storm off before bursting into peels of laughter, Jace's deeper one vibrating pleasantly inside the same space and making Clary feel oddly safe.

"Not that to placate to collegiate terrorism," Clary said. "But we should probably go."

"Wouldn't want to keep Lewis waiting," he said.

"Jealous?" she asked, brushing her nails down his lateral and across her favorite of his tattoos, a half moon with a series of broad strokes contained within it. She still didn't know what they were meant to signify; he'd been extremely elusive on the subject.

"I don't know," he said in response "Has he seen you naked?"

She shook her head.

"Then no, I'm not."

She leaned up to kiss him before shutting off the tap. They dressed quickly, and soon enough they were outside Carlyle Court. It was November now, and there was a chill in the air.

"Where are you headed?" she asked, bowing into his warmth. He always seemed to run hot.

"Home," he said without elaboration.

"Ah yes, the elusive apartment. Am I ever going to see this Shangri-La of yours? Or meet Alec and Isabelle, for that matter?"

She couldn't be sure, but it seemed as if he'd tensed, something guarded flashing behind his amber eyes.

"Of course," he said in a light tone a moment later, and she was sure she'd imagined the hesitation.

She leaned up to kiss him goodbye, but what was meant to be a peck became more when he twined his hands through her hair.

"Are your alright?" she asked as he rested his forehead on hers.

He nodded.

"See you tonight? I believe you owe me drinks and dinner from our last billiards match."

"Only douches and Victorian ghosts use that word," she said in a dry tone. "And that was a lucky shot. I'm better, and you know it."

"Careful, Fray," he said, pulling her against him and grinning. "Those are fighting words."

"Put your dukes up,pretty boy; I'd killed you in a fight."

He laughed, peering down at where she stood near a foot below him.

"Aren't you cute," he said, ruffling her hair and making her scowl. "See you tonight, kiddo."

* * *

"He's late," Alec said, eyes blazing. "Again."

"He'll be here," Isabelle replied.

She watched her brother pace, shoulders pinched and head tucked forward. His back must have constantly ached; his posture was terrible.

"He was supposed to be here ten minutes ago," Alec said in agitation. "We're meant to train at the Institute this morning."

It was a tone he often used—annoyance was Alec's base state of being—but Isabelle could hear something softer and more wounded underneath it.

"What's going on?" she asked in a gentle voice.

He turned to look at her, his eyes like the scalding blue at the centre of a flame.

"This is an important assignment, and neither of you are taking it seriously."

Isabelle shook her head.

"That's not what this is about, Alec."

His shoulders slumped down as his head fell almost onto his chest, sending his dark hair into his eyes.

"I see how you look at him," Isabelle said in half whisper.

"He's my parabatai," Alec said automatically.

"That doesn't change the fact you're in love him," she replied.

Alec let out of shaky exhale. She could tell he wanted to blow up and deny it, but that he also knew there was no point to doing so; she knew all his tantrums and what they really meant.

"How long have you known?" he asked finally.

"A couple months. But I wasn't sure until Jace start seeing—that girl."

"What's she like?" Alec said at once. "Have you met her?"

Isabelle shook her head. Technically that was true; she and Clary had never been formally introduced.

"Is he in love with her?" Alec said, voice fractured.

Isabelle bit her lip. Jace hadn't said one way or the other, but she could see in his eyes how hard he'd fallen. She knew Alec could see it, too.

"Alec—" she began, but she was interrupted by the door swinging open to admit a grinning Jace. His hair was still damp from a recent shower, and he smelled faintly of a floral, girly shampoo.

"What are we talking about?" he said in a jovial voice. "Me, I hope."

Alec gave a soft snarl. "Get over yourself, Wayland. And you're twenty minutes late. I'm going to the Institute without you."

He shoved passed Jace without finesse, knocking him in the shoulder and slamming the door with such violence behind him that it seemed to tremble in fear.

"Jesus," Jace said in a mild voice, as if he was remarking on clouds in the forecast. "Who shit in his boots?"

Isabelle gave him a frosty look.

"You can't keep lying to him about Clary. Can't you see how much it's hurting him?"

The mirth melted from Jace's expression at once.

"I can't, Is; you _know_ I can't."

"Is it serious between you two?" she said, voice thin and sharp, like the edge of a kinjal.

Jace clenched his jaw but didn't answer.

"Have you slept together yet?"

His jaw tightened again as if to signal he wouldn't answer, but she gave him such a hard look that his resolved buckled, like a rotten beam too brittle to bear its load any longer.

"No," he admitted. "We're taking it slow. I think she's—"

"Please don't say 'a virgin'."

"—a virgin," he finished.

Isabelle squeezed her eyes shut as if to fend off a bitter wind or foul smell.

"Do you know what fire you're playing with here?" she burst finally. " _God_ , do you even care?"

"The Clave—"

"No, forget The Clave," she demanded. "You should be worried about what Valentine's going to do to you when he finds out you deflowered his only daughter. His _prize_!"

"Valentine's not coming for Clary,' Jace said, forcing the words out as if willing them into veracity.

"No, Valentine hasn't come for her _yet_ ," Isabelle said. "But you're naive if you think he never will."

"I won't let that happen," Jace said.

The door opened to readmit Alec. He couldn't have made it more than half a mile. Jace hoped he was there to apologise for being such a prick earlier.

"You've been recalled to Idris," he said to Jace without preamble, tone still full of cold fury.

"What?" Jace asked, feeling the colour draining from his face. "Why?"

"I don't know; something to do with your father."

Here Jace's eyebrows drew together.

"My father?" he said. "What about him?"

"I don't know," Alec repeated in a tone that suggested he was annoyed with Jace's questions.

"Well how long will I be gone?"

Alec's lip curled.

"Worried your Seelie girlfriend's bed will get cold without you?"

"Alec," Isabelle said. "That's enough."

Alec looked away.

"No more than a week," he said. "Hurry up, your portal leaves in twenty minutes."

Jace felt dazed, as if he'd be knocked in the head one too many times.

"Today, Jace. Jesus," Alec said.

Jace still made no move to do as he was bid.

"I need to make a call first," he said, ignoring Alec's blatant look of disapproval as he slunk towards his own room and shut the door. He didn't know why he was bothering; you could hear everything that was every said in the apartment. Quickly he dialed Clary, willing her to pick up. This wasn't the kind of news he wanted to delivery via text.

"Miss me already?" she asked after the third ring.

"You wish," he said breezily in reply, reminding himself over and over not to say her name. "Listen, I hate to do this, but I have to take a raincheck on dinner."

"Okay," she said. "What's going on?"

"I—" he began. "I have to go home. Something's come up."

"Home?" she said. "Like Johannesburg?"

He squeezed his eyes shut. He hated lying to her, but he also didn't see what choice he had.

"Yes."

"Well when are you coming back?"

"Thursday, hopefully. Maybe sooner."

"Is everything alright?" Clary said.

"It's fine."

"Well, can I see you before you go. I can get Simon to—"

"I'm already on my way to JFK. Cl—" he caught himself. "hey, listen: my phone won't work there, but I promise I'll call you the minute I'm back."

"You're kinda freaking me out, Wayland," she said, and he forced a laugh.

"Just think of it as foreplay," he said, hoping she couldn't hear the apprehension in his own voice. Whatever awaited him in Idris, it wasn't likely to be pleasant. "See you Thursday."

She agreed, and the line disconnected. Taking a deep breath, he grabbed a small bag and began to pack.

* * *

Clary sat with back hunched and brow furrowed, trying to concentrate on the bust she was drawing. It sat on a pedestal in the middle of the deserted studio, bathing in the afternoon light. She glanced back at her charcoal imitation sitting on her easel and groaned. Something about it wasn't quite right, but she'd been staring at it for so long she couldn't figure out what.

She huffed.

There was no denying it; she was distracted. Despite his promise he'd be back Thursday, it was Friday, and Clary still hadn't heard from Jace. They were beyond the point in their relationship where she worried that he'd simply grown bored and given her the slip, but she couldn't stop replaying his voice when he'd said he was leaving. Beneath his usual bored arrogance, there had been uncertainty. Pain, even.

Of all the things Clary had come to know about Jace, all the secrets she'd managed to unlock, his past was one thing he never discussed. She knew virtually nothing about his upbringing besides that his mother had died when he was a baby and his father when he was ten. Usually when he talked about his childhood, it was stories about Alec and Isabelle and their life in New York.

Never once had he mentioned Johannesburg or his life there No, more than that, she realised. He'd told her when they'd first met that he hadn't been back since his father died. What had happened that he was going back now?

She shook her head. It wasn't her place to pry. If Jace wanted to tell her, he would, and if not, she had to respect his privacy and not bug him about it.

She glanced back at her drawing. Having taken a moment to step back, at least mentally, from it, she could tell now what was wrong; she wasn't quite drawing the bust. Instead, she was drawing someone else. The basic features were the same—the high brow, the long nose, the full lips—but they weren't quite the identical. Her figure's face was too fine and angular, and there was something that she'd captured in the set of the mouth and eyebrows that spoke of sinister intention. She guessed she'd read too many romance novels in high school, where the antihero was always dark and dashing. She looked back at the beautiful, ageless face she'd drawn, and something ugly, something almost like recognition, tugged at her. Whatever it was, she didn't like it, and glancing at the bust again, she growled and tore the page from the clips. It made a satisfying sound as she crumpled it up, and an even more satisfying one as it whizzed through the air after she hurled it. Due to the heft of the paper, it flew a fair distance, landing at the well-shined boots of the figure who was casually leaning in the doorway, arms crossed.

"I know I'm late, but there's really no need to throw shit."

"Jace!"

She leap up, tearing her earbud out and bounding towards him. He laughed and extended his arms, allowing her to leap into them. His hand quickly found purchase underneath her legs, pressing her hips to his as his head tipped back to receive his kiss.

"Miss me?" he breathed against her lips as she tugged at his hair.

"Not really," she said, easing back to her feet.

He grinned, but his eyes were not as luminous as usual.

"Pants on fire, Fray."

"How was Johannesburg?" she said, watching the muscles in his jaw contract like a coiling snake.

"Long," he said finally. "I'm happy to be back."

She nodded, leading him to a plush sofa tucked back in the corner of the room. They sometimes used in figure drawing class.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

He considered, tugging her legs into his lap.

"It was about my parents," he said after a pregnant silence.

"What about them?"

He sighed, and she'd never seen him so disarmed. It made him look younger than usual.

"They—weren't who I thought they were."

She didn't ask him to elaborate, and after a minute he continued on his own.

"My father—that is to say, the man who raised me—he's not who he said he was."

"Wait, what?" she said.

Her eyes had widened to silver dollars.

"I grew up thinking Michael Wayland was my father, but that turned out to be untrue. Michael Wayland was a man my father had killed, and afterward he stole his identity."

She felt the completely inappropriate need to laugh bubbling up, not because it was funny, but because it was so unbelievable and horrific she didn't know how to react.

"That's awful," she said finally. "Why would he do that?"

"He's a criminal," Jace said before pausing. "More than that, he's a liar. He told me—" Jace broke off again. "It turns out that wasn't all he was lying about. I'm not his biological son, either."

"Then who's your real father?"

"A man named Stephen. He died before I was born."

"And this is all just coming out now?" she asked, feeling a little nauseous for Jace's sake.

"My father faked his death when I was a kid—that's how I ended up with the Lightwoods—but he's back now and wreaking havoc. The—police wanted to know what, if anything, I knew about his plans, and whether he's contacted me."

Clary thought to ask the obvious question, but the look in Jace's eyes seemed to beg her not to, and she remained silent.

"I'm so sorry," she said, leaning forward to rake a hand through his hair. "I can't even imagine what that must have felt like."

"It was awful," he admitted. "And it just makes me feel like I don't know who I am."

"I know the feeling," she said, and he looked surprised.

"You do?"

"Have I ever told you about my dad?" she asked, and he shook his head, stunned.

"My mom never wanted to talk about him, but I know he was a bad guy, and really abusive. I'm pretty sure he's a murderer, too."

Jace regarded her in fascination. It never ceased to amaze him the way her keen mind sought the truth about Valentine and what she was, even through whatever strictures had been placed on her memory. He yearned to tear the bindings away and share the truth with her, even knowing it was a selfish impulse. Part of him was simply in pain about learning Valentine had raised him, and he waned to share that pain with someone who would understand. Still, he knew he wouldn't. He understood now why Jocelyn had been so desperate to keep Clary out of the Shadow World, and he felt determined to protect that wish.

"I'm sorry," he said to Clary, stroking her legs.

It was funny: before he'd met her, he'd done his level best to never apologise, even for things which were squarely his fault. However, he'd found he said it every time Clary expressed pain or doubt. He'd chided himself for it at first, because it was a Mundane gesture, and a hollow one at that; it was simply something people blurted when they didn't know what else to say. Still, Jace found over time that it wasn't hollow for him. When he said it to Clary, he really meant it.

Since he'd met her, his almost singular desire had been to protect her, not because she was weak—Clary had the mental and emotional fortitude of an Iron Sister—but because he loved her. He hadn't quite realised it or been ready to admit it before, but being in Idris had thrown the whole business into rather sharp relief. He loved her, and he wanted to love her all the days of his life.

"Let's talk about something else,"she said, scraping her nails against his scalp and making him hum contentedly.

"Did you miss me? Because I think Carolyn missed you. This morning I was singing to myself in the shower, and she ripped the curtains open and screamed at me for about ten seconds before he realised I was alone."

Jace laughed.

"Maybe she just wants to see me naked. It's probably be the thrill of her life, poor girl."

"Can't say I blame her," Clary said, scooting into his lap so her knees were nestled against his flanks.

"Yeah?" he said, adjusting her hips with strong hands.

She yielded to his touch and he groaned, unbidden, when she settled into a more meaningful position.

"It feels like forever since I've seen you naked," she said, sliding her palms up underneath his white t-shirt. "I've almost forgotten what you look like. Give me a refresher?"

He laughed as she kissed his neck. He loved the way she flirted with the distinction between sultry and coy, blurring it.

"Here?" he asked, already feeling his body reacted. It had admittedly been years since he'd gone this long without sex.

"The door is locked. Wait—" she paused, looking mildly stricken. "How did you get in?"

He fought not to swear. He'd used a rune, like a bleeding idiot. He recovered quickly, saying, "it was ajar. It's closed now, though."

"Good," she said, kissing him as she pulled his shirt off, then her own.

The bra she was wearing drove him wild, mostly in its simplicity. Like Clary's seduction style, it was both provocative and demure, and just seeing in (and the elegant peaks of her nipples beneath the cream lace) made him stiffen. He wrapped an authoritative hand around her back, flipping them so she was no underneath them. He immediately tugged down the soft leggings she always wore and slipped his left hand inside her cotton knickers. She squirmed as he found a spot she liked.

"Wait," she said after a minute, breathless from half of a fever-soaked laugh that had gotten caught in her throat. "Stop."

"What is it?" he said, not stopping. "Do you want me to go down on you?"

"No," she said, and at this he did stop. She sounded nervous all of a sudden. "I mean I do," she said, seeing his expression. "Obviously. I just meant I want—" she broke off, but her eyes were full of meaning. The ininuation sent a jolt of electric desire to his core. Of all the things he'd done with Clary, there was still _so_ much more he wanted to show her. He imagined it all again, and his jean were suddenly tight. However, after a second he realised something and groaned.

"Clary," he said, sitting back a little. He had to get some distance between them or he'd lose it. "I didn't bring—"

"I have an IUD," she said quickly in response

"I don't know—" he began again, but she cut him off a second time.

"It's a very effective form of birth control," she said, and he could see the a flush in her cheeks.

He felt almost dazed.

"I mean," she said, trying to read his expression. "We don't have to, if you don't want."

He laughed hoarsely, and it sounded more like he was choking than amused.

"Are you kidding me? Of course I do."

She seemed relieved, and he could feel some of the tension seeping out of her form.

"Just...go slow," she said, flush spreading. "It's—I've never actually...done it before."

He felt a small bundle of nerves tighten in his stomach. He'd never taken anyone's virginity before, and he was worried about hurting her. Still, he figured the key to good first time sex was likely the same as good sex in general, and that was foreplay. He bent and began kissing Clary's neck, fumbling behind her to unclamp her bra. he was surprise to find how nervous he was. He steadied himself by listening to Clary's breathing as he rained kisses over her neck and chest. Only when she was panting did he begin to move lower, taking her underwear down as he went.

She whimpered when his tongue touched her, and it was one of the sexiest noises he'd ever heard. Clary, now more accostumed to her own body and what she liked, threaded her hands in his hair and began to roll his hips against his mouth. She'd become a true co-author in her own ecstacy, and her newfound authority drove him wild.

Still, not completely willing to cede his power over her, he pulled back as she approached orgasm, blowing gently on the pulsing core instead. She shuddered and groaned as he dove back in, even using his teeth gently. At this Clary convulsed, and Jace smirked, tongue slowing from a hummingbird to a bumble bee. She continued to twitch and sigh under his machinations, and when he slid two fingers inside her, he could feel she was ready for him.

He shred the rest of his own clothes with blinding speed before settling back between her thighs and kissing her. He could feel some of the tension he'd washed away with orgasm reforned in her shoulders, and he pulling back, wishing he wasn't so hard already.

"We don't have to do this," he said, using his hand to shield his impressive...desire from her.

"No," she said, tugging his hand away, and as always, Clary seemed very sure of herself. "I want to."

He nodded, kissing her again.

"I will be gentle, I promise."

She nodded and shifted her hips, expecting him to make his preperations to enter her.

However, he didn't. Not yet, anyways. He side his fingers inside of her again as his mouth descended, and when he pulled back, his fingers glistened. He stroked himself with the same hand. several times before brushing the tip against her fount, anointing himself to make his entrance easier on her.

The urge to bury himself hilt deep raged up, bt he fought it down, drawing lazy circle against her instead.

"Stop being a tease," she rasped, and it was too much for him.

He sunk into her in one fluid motion, swearing quietly as he did. He'd forgotten to anticipate how tight she would be; not to mention how much better sex was without a condom.

"Fuck," he said again on a shaky exhale. "You feel incredible. Am I hurting you?"

She laughed, and it was a delightfully unguarded sound.

"Not at all. Keep going."

He pulled out before sliding back in, biting his lip. When she let out a quiet moan. He found himself suddenly concerned how long he'd be able to last. He shoved the thought aside visciously. He refused to get off before she did. He began thrusting with delicate precision, working her clit wit the pad of his thumb. His body naturally began to pick up speed, and he grit his teeth.

"Are you alright?" he asked, her eyes were squeezed shut and she was biting her lip as if she were in pain. She released the breath she'd been holding back, and it came out as a gutteral moan.

"Stop talking," she said with authority, and he oblidged, pulling her knees against the front of his rib cage for a different angle. He could feel himself scraping against her front wall, and she hissed at the new sensation.

"Say my name," he said in a rasp, fingers and hips moving in tandem.

"What?"

She seemed surprised, or bashful, even.

"I want to hear you say my name when you come," he said, and she surged forward, tongue tangled with his in a desperate kiss.

"Jace," she breathed, and he had to fend off an unmanly wimper.

When he'd made the demand, he'd imagined her screaming it the way other girls had, like it was a triumph that needed to be heralded. But hearing it whispered, as if it were a secret meant only for him, had been so much more powerful. He supposed it made sense, though. Clary was unlike any girl he'd ever been with, and the sex was different, too. He instantly knew why: because it was so much more than sex.

Their lips remained close as her body tensed, their breath mingling as she said his name again. She went languid as the orgasm subsided, and he gave a shaky exhale, last only several more seconds before feeling himself beginning to unravel. He thought for a panicked moment that he had to stop, that he couldn't—but she seemed to sense his thoughts, and she held his hips in place, even clenching around him on the downstroke.

He actually cried out, rocking his hips as he finished. That truly was a first. He'd never finished inside of a girl without protection on, and it was unimaginably pleasurable. He blinked, feeling almost dazed at how good the sex had been. He rested his forehead on her collarbone, heart still pounding.

"Oh my god," she said. "That felt so good."

He kissed her.

"Are you just saying that to preserve my fragile male ego?"

She laughed.

"When have you even known me to sugarcoat it, Wayland?"

He must have tensed, because she sat up a little.

"I'm sorry," she said. "That just slipped out."

"Don't be sorry," he said, swinging his legs down onto the floor. She slipped back into her underwear and curled against him. "It doesn't—" he wanted to say 'bother me', but he didn't want to lie to her, either. "I guess it's just not strictly accurate anymore, is it?"

She considered, as if she was on the brink of saying something important, of spilling a secret. Finally she said against his shoulder, "Fray's not my last name, either."

He turned to her, stunned.

"What?"

"It's Fairchild," she said.

How in Razael's name did she know that, and what else did she know?

"At least," she continued. "That was my mom's maiden name. I think she changed it when she left my dad to keep anyone from her past from finding her."

"How do you know all this?" he blurted. He knew it was probably the wrong thing to ask, but he couldn't help it. She was so close to her shadowhunter roots even though she didn't know it, and he yearned to reach through the veil and tug her into it. Into him.

"I found it in a box in her room. There was a photo of her, Luke, and I assume my dad, and a pendant with her name engraved on it. I guess my point is I understand what it feels like to find out you aren't exactly who you thought you were."

He wanted to say 'I love you' right then, and only his innate fear of rejection and the self-loathing Valetine had instilled in him that kept him silent.

"What I'm trying to tell you," she continued, touching his cheek. "Is that names don't matter. You are still you, and I—" she broke off, and his heart beat like the wings of a frightened sparrow. He didn't dare hope to hear from her what he was so desperate to.

"I adore you," she finished.

" _Adore_ me?" he said in a comically affected Victorian accent, buying his pathetic disappointment under mirth. "Oh _stop_ it, darling, you'll make me blush."

She laughed, a delightfully unguarded sound given the timbre of their conversation. He turned over his shoulder to kiss her. She purred in contentment before laying her head in the crook of his neck. Feeling her breath against his collarbone made him shiver.

"So," she said in a sardonic tone after a minute or two of silence. "That was sex, huh? Interesting."

He grinned like a wolf.

"You don't know the half of it. God, the things I'm going to do with you," he said in a husky voice, nipping at her lips with his pearly teeth. "It's not even funny."

"Show me," she said, tugging him on top of her again. However, she winced as she uncrossed her lean legs.

"Are you alright?" he said, and she waved a dismissive hand.

"Fine. Just—" she broke off, and he smirked.

"Yes?"

"Don't make me say it, you fragile male creature."

"Say what?"

"I'm sore. You're... _well-equipped_ and highly trained and a God among mortals. Happy?"

He smiled, wishing he could give her an eratzi to take away the discomfort. However, after a second he dismissed the thought as selfish. He couldn't deny part of him just wanted to take it away so he could fuck her desperately again.

"Extremely," he said in a smug tone. "Let's go get something to eat. I'm fucking starving."

She gave an almost sheepish laugh as she carefully slip her leggings on.

"Maybe we should go back to my room first and shower. We probably smell like—um—"

He grinned, burying his nose in her neck. She was right; she smelled like sweat and his cologne and her own...desire. It was an intoxicating scent.

"Good idea," he said in her ear. "Text Carolyn right now and let her know we'll be there in ten."


	7. Chapter 7

Seven

* * *

Jace sat on the overstuffed couch in his midtown apartment, watching the snow falling outside the window with detachment before sighing and burying his head in his hands. It wasn't even five yet, but he'd found that he was too wound up to sleep.

It was late December now—nearly Christmas—and besides Clary sleeping in his bedroom, he was alone. Valentine's forces were growing by the hundreds every day, and both Isabelle and Alec had been recalled to Idris as the Clave prepared for what was now almost inevitably a war.

Jace wasn't sure how he'd managed to convince the Council that he ought to stay behind and watch Clary instead of going with them, but miraculously, he had. At first it had been decided she would be brought to Idris and detained in the Glass City for her own protection, but he'd been able to convince them out of that, too. She was Lucian Greymark's daughter, he'd argued, and Greymark would sooner rip the whole Clave than allow them to bring Clary back into the world her mother had given so much to keep her from. Things were fragile enough with the Downworld as it was, Jace had pointed out; they couldn't risk antagonising its senior members any further.

Jace ran a distressed hand through his hair. As nice as it had been to not have to sneak around with Clary, he couldn't ever completely put aside the reason why, or acquit himself of the guilt that it inspired. Valentine, _his father_ , was putting the world Jace loved to torch, and the Shadowhunter soldier in him itched to fight; to kill his father and brother. _Brother_. He supposed technically that wasn't correct—he and Jonathan shared no blood—but they'd both been raised by Valentine, and Jace believed in nurture over nature, to whatever extent that was really possible. Even having never met him face to face, Jace felt that he was his brother's keeper, his counterweight, the lightness to Jonathan's depravity. Somehow, he felt it was his destiny, his _responsibility_ , to kill him. To kill them both.

"Jace? What are you doing up so early?"

Clary padded out from the bedroom wearing only a thin t-shirt and knickers, sinking towards him with an easy grace he was sure she didn't even know she possessed. God, she was just so beautiful.

"Couldn't sleep," he said vaguely, extending an arm so she could settle against his chest.

Immediately his fingers found their way into her coppery hair.

"Are you alright?" she asked. "You've been out of sorts lately."

"Maybe I'm just stressed about exams," he said in deflection, and he could feel her laughter vibrating through his rib cage.

"Oh please," she said, idly fingering the drawstring of the sweatpants he wore. "Is it—" she began after a beat. "Are you still worried about your dad?"

He let out a breath. It never ceased to surprise Jace, after a lifetime of detachment, how well Clary seemed to know him. It was, at once, both terrifying and a bit thrilling.

"Yes," he admitted. "In fact, he's—making more of a mess than ever. It's gotten pretty bad."

"I'm sorry," she said, sitting up and running a hand through his hair. "That can't be easy."

He turned to look down at her.

"You make it easier," he said in earnest, and the grip on his hair tightened as she angled up to kiss him, letting her touch communicate all the things she wanted to tell him but wasn't sure how to.

He groaned and tugged her into his lap as she nipped his lip with her teeth and ran her tongue across his. When her lips alighted to his jaw and then his neck, he could feel his body react at once. It was odd, but as many times as they'd been together since their first time in the art studio, touching her always felt completely new.

He rose with her still in his arms, and her knees locked around his hips as he carried her to the bedroom, their lips still connected. He pushed the door open impatiently as she sank back to her feet, tugging the t-shirt over her head before kissing him again. He groaned as her small breasts pushed into his chest, and he brought a hand around to grip her arse before depositing her with reverence on the bed and crawling on top of her. However, she was only beneath him for a second before she deftly rolled away to crawl back into his lap, grinding against him through his tightening sweats.

"Relax, J," she instructed as she kissed her way down his abdomen before pausing at his waistband.

He groaned when she gripped him, and again, louder, when she laved him with her tongue. He right away could feel an orgasm building, but he staved it off.

"No," he grit out even as his back arched involuntarily. "I want—"

In answer, she slipped off her knickers and sank down on his length.

"Oh god, Clary," he breathed, grabbing her hips for more control as she pressed her small palms into his chest for leverage.

Clary didn't usually like to be on top, she often complained she didn't know what she was doing and that the angle was unflattering, but it drove Jace wild. With her chest bare and her unbound hair fluttering around her waist, she looked to Jace like Venus rising from the waves.

"Kiss me," she demanded quietly, readjusting for a deeper angle as she bent to bring her face to his.

She swallowed the cry he gave at the new sensation, his hips now rising and falling to meet her rhythm.

She began to whimper as he increased the pace, the room filling with the sound of his flesh against hers. Finally, her whole form tensed, and when the orgasm crested over her, she half collapsed against his chest, arching her back like a cat so he could control the pace. He wrapped an arm around her back before flipping them. She mewed as her head hit the pillow, sooty eyelashes fluttering as her eyes fell half closed in woozy pleasure.

Jace's, on the other hand, remained open as he studied her, the muscles in his stomach tightening as he released. _I love you_ , he yearned to say. _More than the sun and stars_.

However, all that came out as he fell undone was her name, whispered as a prayer.

He bent to kiss her as their bodies slid apart, and Clary curled neatly into the crook of his shoulder. Jace marveled at how well she fit into all the curves of his body, as if God had molded them to fit perfectly together.

"Are you sure you're all right?" she asked.

"I just got my rocks off," he replied in a sardonic tone as he tucked his free hand, the one not holding her, behind his head. "Obviously I'm fantastic."

"First of all," she said in disgust, rising up a little to scowl at him. " _Gross_. Second, you know what I mean. About your dad."

He sighed. If only she knew what she was really asking. It wasn't his father he was worrying about; it was hers.

"Are you worried he'll come looking for you here?"

"No," Jace said finally. "He has—" he paused, thinking of Jonathan. "He's not interested in me," he finished. "He already has what he wants."

"What do you mean?"

Jace clenched his jaw, wishing he hadn't said anything. Jonathan certainly wasn't something he wanted to discuss with Clary, and the very thought of him always made Jace's chest constrict uncomfortably.

Though finding out that he wasn't Valentine's biological had largely been a relief, because it seemed to signify he had no real interest in Jace or Clary. Still, there was a small, dark shard from Jace's broken childhood that had snapped off in his soul, and the wound it had caused has festered and rotted over time, leaving a dull but constant ache in his chest, because that piece of him would always yearn for his father's affection, for his approval. It was also that part of him that made him hate Jonathan, not for all the unspeakable things he'd done in Valentine's name, but for being the son Valentine had chosen; the only one he'd found worthy enough to love.

"Honestly woman," he said in deflection, forcing an easy grin. "Stop fussing over me."

"Unfortunately I can't," she said, running a hand through his hair. "Stress can age you prematurely, and I'm only in this for your incredible good looks; if those go, so do I."

"Clarissa!" he laughed, matching her grin.

"But seriously," she said, smile fading from impish to affectionate. "You're barely sleeping, and you seem on edge. Talk to me."

"Clary," he repeated. "I'm fine. Please, stop worrying. I just—I have a lot on my mind."

"Then let me take you out tonight," she said. "Take your mind off of things for awhile. You could use a good distraction."

"You don't need to take me out to distract me," he growled seductively. "I am never more pleasantly distracted then when I'm here, in bed with you."

"If that were true we wouldn't be having this conversation," she pointed out. "And I mean, _Jesus_ , when is the last time you left this apartment?"

Jace considered. He couldn't quite remember, beyond realising with mild horror it had been some time last week.

"Exactly," she said, reading his expression. "I win; we're going out."

"Out where?"

"That's for me to know and you...not to know. Honestly, though, I could take you to McDonald's and it would still be an improvement."

"How about the one in Time's Square, then? " he said. "You know how much I love tourists."

She laughed.

"Okay, maybe not fast food. As far as good spots to celebrate, they aren't really high on my list."

"What are we celebrating? Because if it's the 100th anniversary of us having sex, you're two weeks late."

"Oh, you've got to be joking!"

"123, my hand to the Maker."

"Okay, first of all that can't be right, and second you are _ridiculous_ for actually counting."

"What do you mean that can't be right? Are you saying you don't remember that Saturday we had it five times in one day?"

"Jace!"

He laughed, and she hit his chest, laughing too.

"Ew, I thought you serious!"

"As much as I love having sex with you—and I do, very much—it's not the sort of thing a gentleman keeps a tally of."

"Didn't realise you were a gentleman," she ribbed. "But considering you might actually start counting if I say you aren't, I'll allow it."

"Okay, so it's not our sexiversary," he said. "What are we celebrating?"

Clary sat up, eyes sparkling even as she blushed a little.

"J, I—I'm pregnant. We're having a baby."

"What?" he said, sitting up too even as his mouth went dry and all the colour drained from his face.

At seeing his expression, she gave a charming laugh, like the chiming of delicate bells.

"You should _see_ the look on your face!" she said, continuing to laugh. "God, I wish I'd had my phone. That would have been Snapchat gold."

"Jesus Christ," he said, flopping back on his back. "I think I just had a heart attack."

"Why?" she asked, leaning over to stroke his cheek. "Is the idea of having a baby with me really so horrifying?"

Her tone was light, still joking, but his brows knit together.

"Of course not," he said earnestly. "I just—maybe hoped it would be a few years yet."

The idea had caused an unpleasant blossom of pain in his chest. He took always their relationship one day at a time, never wanting to think to far into the future. Marrying Clary and having children with her had become, more than anything, Jace's deepest, darkest wish. However, he couldn't deny what it would likely cost him. Either he would have to draw her into his world and all its perils, or relinquish his birthright. The former would entail him admitting to her that he'd been lying since they'd met, and the latter would mean de-runing. Neither seemed very appealing prospects.

"Okay, I'm sorry," she said, drawing him from his reverie. "That was mean. It's actually that I got into that programme in Italy; I'm going to Florence next semester!"

"Clary!" he said, ignoring another swell of disappointment. "That's fantastic!"

Clary had applied for an artist-in residence programme in November, and though Jace had had no doubt she'd get in, the implications of that weren't something he'd looked forward to, either.

If the Clave decided to retain surveillance on Clary, the responsibility would transfer to the Florentine Institute. On the other hand, if she was no longer his specific charge, the Clave might look more kindly on a potential relationship between them. Their ranks continued to dwindle, and he knew they were in need of young Shadowhunters to reproduce. Still, that brought him back to his earlier dilemma...

He pushed the thought aside. It didn't matter; this was Clary's dream, and much as he'd grown to love her, he would rather give her up than get in the way of that.

"I'm so proud of you," he said, rising up to kiss her. "Though I knew you'd get in. You're brilliant Fray, in more ways than one."

She looked earnestly into his eyes, and he thought, or least hoped, he could read what was written there. _I love you._

"Thank you," she said instead, stroking his cheek. "I never would have applied if you hadn't pushed me to."

He smiled.

"How's your stepdad taking the news?"

"I don't think he's thrilled with the idea," she admitted. "But he knows how badly I want to go. Besides," she trailed off. "It was always one of my mom's dreams. I think we both feel like it's a good way to honour her."

"She would be proud," he said, and she nodded.

"Still, he's trying to get me to take a self defense class over Christmas, and he already bought me pepper spray."

"I could train you, if you wanted," he offered, selfishly imagining, for a moment, how good it would feel to see Clary in an element she didn't even know was hers by birthright.

"Don't tell me," she said. "You're a black belt or something."

He grinned.

"Or something," he agreed.

"Is that what the tattoos are about?" she asked. "Because I've counted, and you literally have seventeen."

He fought not to tense; he always felt horrible when she mentioned his marks, because it meant he had to lie to her. He often wished he'd consented to a glamour to conceal them, but when he'd begun the mission it had seemed unnecessary, and once Clary had seem them, it wasn't possible to start covering them up.

"Maybe," he said in what he hoped with a playful tone. "Maybe not."

"Oh come on," she said. "Just give me a hint, at least!"

He considered her request with more sincerity than he knew he should, because he was treading in dangerous waters. On the other hand, he'd broken so many Clave mandates already where Clary was concerned, and it wasn't like she was a Mundane; it wasn't technically breaking any rules to tell her.

He sat up, indicating the twisting Parabatai ruin on his left shoulder.

"This one is part of a set," he said, as she ran her hand gently down it, tracing the curves with reverence.

"Who has the other one?" She queried. "Alec?"

He nodded mutely.

"Am I ever going to meet him?" she asked with a slight pleading. "Because I really want to."

"I want you to, too," he admitted. She and Alec made up two parts of his own self, and he yearned to bring them together, even knowing what Alec's reaction would likely be.

"Where is he now?" she asked.

"Europe," he said honestly. "With his family."

"Is that where he and Isabelle are from?" she asked. "Maybe you can all come down to Italy and visit me next semester."

He touched her cheek.

"I'd like that."

She smiled, and it lit both her face and the continual desire in his chest to tell her he loved her.

"Well I should go," she said, rising naked from the bed and going to the drawer he'd gifted her in his faded bureau. "Unlike you, I still have one exam to go."

"Which one?"

"Crime and Vice in Victorian England," she laughed. "Plus, I have to drop off my final drawing for my figure class."

He grinned devilishly.

"The one of me, you mean?"

She blush, widening his grin.

"We agreed to never mention that again, remember?"

"I _never_ agreed to that."

She'd come to him somewhat sheepishly a month ago and admitted she needed a model for her final, and he'd agreed at once. It wasn't—to Clary's seeming relief and despite Jace's protestations—a nude drawing, but it hadn't stopped him from making love to her in the studio after she'd finished it.

"Alright," she said. "I have to go cram. Give me a kiss. I'll see you tonight."

She bent over the bed for a peck, but he'd immediately threaded a hand into her hair, devouring her. Finally she pulled away, breathless.

"Okay, now I really have to go, before I say 'fuck it' and end up spending all day in bed with you."

"We could go for 124," he said against her lips. "You know you want to."

She laughed, extracting herself more fully.

"You," she said. "Are incorrigible," she said. "See you tonight."

"I can't wait, " he told her earnestly, and with a wave she was gone.

* * *

True to her word, Clary arrived around seven thirty that evening, bundled up in a knee-length down coat with a faux-fur hood and wool mittens. Her cheeks were flushed from the cold, which only made the green in her jade eyes more visible.

"Are you ready?" she asked, grinning as she kissed him.

"I'm not sure," he laughed. "I didn't realise we were going on an Artic expedition. I'll have to look around for my ice picks; I might have leant them to Alec."

"Don't be a wise ass," she laughed. "Get your coat and let's go!"

"Not until you tell me where we're going," he laughed as she pushed him excitedly towards his bedroom.

"Never," she said, grabbing his smart designer pea coat and thrusting it at him before rummaging in his closet for boots. "Hurry up."

"Fine," he laughed, shrugging the coat on before sitting on his bed to lace up the boots. "But can I at least make a guess? Zoo Lights at the Bronx Zoo."

"Ugh," she said. "I'd rather burn in Hell. And why do you have a Kevlar vest in your closet?"

"What?" he said, finishing the left boot before starting on the right.

She drew out a shadowhunting gear jacket from his closet, and his mouth went dry.

"It's like what cops wear during riots," she said, her voice somewhere between amused and alarmed. "Is this the part where you tell me that you're actually an undercover Narc trying to crack down on cocaine usage at NYU, because it would explain your apathetic approach to school."

"Of course not," he said, rising quickly to his feet and grabbing the gear jacket. "It's a Halloween costume."

"No it's not," she protested as he tossed it carelessly in the closet. "Because I was with you on Halloween, and you refused to dress—oh my God, is that a _sword_?"

Jace had been attempting to slide the door of the closet closed, but he hadn't been quick enough to shield Clary's gaze from the unruined Seraph blade leaned up against the back wall.

"It's a replica," Jace lied quickly, dismayed at the horror and mistrust bloom in Clary's eyes. "A—joke between me and Alec."

However, Jace could see the remnants of Clary's shadowhunter brain sparking to life, and she gave him a steely look.

"Don't lie to me. That thing looks real."

He blew out a breath, unsure how Hell had managed to break loose so damn quickly. He had about sixty seconds to seal the rift before things really went to shit, and all the promises he'd made to himself about not lying to Clary flew out the window.

"Yes, Clary," he said in bored sarcasm. "You're right. I'm actually part of an ancient league of assassins sworn to protect the world from unknown evils."

Jesus, he had not intended to go _quite_ so on the nose, but he supposed it was as good a time as any to find out if the distance between harm and danger were, in fact, negatively correlated.

"It would explain the tattoos," she continued, clearly still on the scent. "Not to mention the rippling pectorals."

"You know I work out, we've been to the gym together," he said in desperation. "And I swear, the sword is from Alec."

"Why would he give you a sword?" she demanded. "And why is it in your closet?"

"I told you, it's a replica. My—father used to collect ones like it, and before I found out who—what—he was, Alec gave it to me to help me remember him by."

Clary's shoulders relaxed, and guilt roiled in his gut as her expression faded from angry to sympathetic.

"I'm sorry," she said, coming forward to press a cheek to his chest. "I was being crazy. I know you're not an assassin."

He squeezed his eyes shut as another wave of guilt slammed into his ribcage.

"I—it's fine," he said, arming circling her as he rested his head atop hers. "I know it's not exactly normal to have a fake sword in your closet."

"No," she laughed. "It isn't. But if you were normal, I wouldn't like you as much as I do."

Jace exhaled a breath of relief that ruffled Clary's hair.

"Shall we go then?" he asked, eager to get away from what had just happened. "If we want to get to the top of Everest by midnight, we really need to leave now."

She laughed and agreed, tugging him outside towards the 33rd Street station.

"Okay," he said. "My first clue. Are we going up town or down?"

"Hasn't anyone ever told you that patience is a virtue?" she asked as they headed for the six train.

"Many have tried," Jace said. "But as you know, I tend to be horrible at following directions."

They got on the train heading uptown.

"So how long?" he asked.

"If I told you, I'd have to kill you," Clary said. "As an assassin, I'm sure you understand."

He gave her a dry look, not wanting to get back into the fact that he _was_ , in fact, an assassin sworn to protect the human race from unknown evils.

About ten minutes later the train was pulling into the 51st street station, and Clary indicated that they were meant to get off.

"Oh god," Jace said in mild horror as Clary pulled on her mittens again and produced a knit hat from her pocket. "I suddenly have a horrible feeling I know where you're taking me."

Clary gave a triumphant smirk.

"You're the one who said you loved tourists," she pointed out in a sing-song voice as they crossed Park avenue and headed towards Rockefeller Plaza.

Despite the weather, the sprawling promenade was crowded with people, who thronged around the massive Christmas tree and flocked to the large oval ice rink set in the lower level, just in front of the gilt sculpture of Prometheus.

"Would that I could make like Prometheus and burn this place down," Jace muttered as Clary tugged him towards the ticket booth.

"Prometheus gifted the mortals with fire, he didn't use it against them," Clary pointed out.

"Fine," Jace said. "Then I wish I could make like Prometheus and be chained to a rock and be feasted on by vultures."

She rolled her eyes.

"I know why you don't want to do this," she said in a sly tone.

"Because I hate crowds and clichés?" he ventured.

"Because you've never done this before, and deep down in your arrogant little heart, you're afraid you won't be good at it."

Jace bubbled his lips in contempt.

"Please," he said. "I'm good at everything."

"Then prove it," she said, raising her eyebrows.

He narrowed his eyes.

"Nice try, Fray, but I am not so easily manipulated."

"Is that so?" she asked, a devilish grin spreading across her face. "Even if I—"

She tugged him down by the collar to whisper something filthy in his ear, making him smirk.

"I'm a size eleven," he said as she gave him a triumphant smile before going to fetch their skates.

Though Clary had been right, Jace had been reluctant to go out on the ice and embarrass himself in front of the girl he loved, it turned out that his innate Nephilim blood, his God-given grace and speed, had allowed him to pick it up rather quickly, and within fifteen minutes he and Clary were racing around the rink with ease. It turned out that Clary had taken lessons as a child, and she gave a small jump every now and again that made Jace smile. Just as Clary had promised, the evening had completely taken his mind off his troubles, though at this point he was hardly surprised. Clary always kept her promises to him; it was what made trusting her, loving her, so damn easy.

The reservations came in ninety minute blocks, and at ten o'clock they stepped off the rink hand in hand, beaming at each other.

"Say it," she said as they put their own shoes back on. "C'mon, J, say it. You had fun."

He smiled at her, heart full to bursting.

"I had fun," he admitted. "Thank you."

"Well night's not over yet," she said, extending her hand. "How about a nightcap?"

* * *

They took a cab back to Midtown, stopping at a cozy bar called the Middle Branch that was empty and a pleasant change from the tourist-choked plaza. They settled in a cozy booth in the back and ordered two Irish coffees, and as Clary took a sip of hers, licking the whip cream from her lip, she glanced up to find that Jace was watching her.

"What?" she laughed as his eyes flicked back and forth. They were the most incredible colour she'd ever seen. They were brown, she supposed, there was not enough green in them to be hazel, but they were so light they were practically amber, and when the light caught them the way it had now, they glinted pure gold. "Did I miss some?"

Jace answered by bending to kiss her, and there was a warm yearning in the gesture that made Clary's stomach flop pleasantly.

"Clary, I—" he said as they pulled away, twirling a lock of hair around his pianist's finger. "I have to tell you something."

There was an intensity in his tone she hadn't heard since the day he'd returned from South Africa with the news of his father. It scared her a little, but he seemed to read her expression, because he gave a soft smile.

"No," he said in reassurance. "It's not bad. At least, I don't think it is; I _hope_ it isn't."

He paused then, and she leaned up to brush another kiss on the corner of his mouth.

"Well don't leave me in suspense," she said, smiling. "What is it?"

He took a deep breath.

"I think you know by now that my childhood was—less than ideal, and it really messed me up."

"Okay," she said. "How so?"

"My father always insisted that to love was to destroy, and to be loved was to be the one destroyed."

"Jace, that's awful," she said, touching a hand to his back. "I'm so sorry."

He nodded before continuing.

"But the thing was that when the Lightwood's took me in, they _were_ so loving to each other, so I kinda thought that lesson had just sort of glanced off me. It wasn't until I was a little older and started being interested in girls that I realised it had affected me. See, my father, he was trying to groom me to be like him. to—carry out his legacy, and he broke me down to do it. I think in the re-forging, something got lost, because I decided pretty early on that I was basically incapable of love, that my father had taken that from me."

"But you love the Lightwoods," she said. "And they love you."

"Yeah, I know," Jace said. "But that's _filia_ , brotherly love. The love you bear your family. I'm talking about _eros_ , romantic love."

Clary's breath caught a little in her throat, not daring to guess where this might be going.

"I realised that to love wasn't so much to destroy as it was to trust, and after what I'd been through, I could never trust anyone enough to feel something that deep. Even with Alec being my par—my best friend, there was still this essential part of me that felt lost, and without it, I knew I'd never be enough for anyone."

"Oh, Jace," Clary began, but Jace touched her cheek.

"That was until I met you, and I realised that that part wasn't actually missing, it was just locked up, and over the last few months, you've unlocked it completely. Clary, you are the most incredible, smart, funny, beautiful girl I have ever known and I—" he paused, and Clary's heart skipped a beat. "I love you. I've loved you since the first moment we met."

She let the breath she'd been holding out and was surprised to find a tear slide down her cheek.

"I love you, too," she said at once, smiling through the wetness.

He looked almost surprised.

"You do?"

"Since the day you took me to the Cloisters," she admitted, pulling him by the collar towards her so she could kiss him. "And every moment since."

"So much," she said.

Their drinks grew cold as they continued to kiss, repeating with every breath their mutual affection.

"Take me home," Clary breathed at last. "I need to show you just how much."

Jace hastily threw a twenty on the table and tugged her out, hailing a cab with a sharp whistle. They held hands tightly during the five-minute ride back to his apartment, and the minute they crossed the threshold, they were tearing at each other clothes.

"Tell me again," he said hungrily against her lips as he tugged off her bra and threw it across the couch before hoisting her into his arms again.

She giggled.

"I love you," she said. "I love you, Jonathan Christopher Herondale."

It was the first time he'd heard someone call him that, and though it scared him, he also realised that Clary gave him the courage to face that name head-on—to confront its implications—and it made him love her even more.

"Clarissa Adele," he said in the same tone. "You have no _idea_ all the wicked things I'm going to do to you."

Clary laughed, though it faded to a groan as Jace yanked down her underwear and touched his tongue to her trembling core. If someone had told her at the beginning of the term that she was weeks away from falling in love with a greek god, she would have laughed in their face. Yet here she stood (or lay, rather), about to have sex with a guy who was more perfect than she could have dreamt up. However, not perfect in his achievements, or even his good looks, but perfect in his doubts, in his flaws, in his fractured but steely courage.

"Jace," she breathed. "I need you inside of me. Please."

He did as she asked and slid in, pinning her arms and setting an ambitious pace and made her gasp and cry out. She was only vaguely aware of the sound of the front door opening, and she could almost have imagined it if someone hadn't called out a minute later.

"Jace!"

"Fuck," Jace said, under his breath in a panic, but it was all he had time for before the door burst open to admit, Clary presumed Alec Lightwood.

He was tall and chiseled with tousled black hair and storm-tossed blue eyes, and he was dressed in the odd Kevlar-type gear she'd seen in Jace's closet earlier. He was also armed to the teeth, with a quiver on his back, a sword at his belt, and a dagger sheathed in a holster at his thigh.

Clary might have screamed, given the state she was in, but the expression on Alec's face robbed the breath from her throat and she simply pulled the sheet up instead. Not that it mattered; his eyes were fixed on Jace, who'd scrambled out of bed and back into his boxer briefs.

"Alec—" he began, but the other boy cut him off.

"Are you kidding me?" he snarled. " _This_ is who you've been seeing?"

He jabbed an accusatory finger at Clary, though he'd yet to look at her.

"Alec, I can explain—"

"Explain what?" Alec roared. "That you've been sneaking around with Valentine's daughter and _lying_ to me about it? Goddamnit, Jace, do you have any idea how much trouble you're going to be in when the Clave finds out about this?"

Clary wanted to interject, to protest, but there was so much information coming at her at once, she didn't know where to begin.

"Please," Jace was saying. "You can't tell them. Please, Alec, I'm begging you."

Alec's expression softened the slightest bit, and Clary could feel the love and trust flowing between he and Jace.

"I may not have a choice," Alec said in a quiet voice. "Valentine's been spotted in New York. Shadowhunters have already been sent to the Village to secure her location. When they realise she's not there, their going to track her here."

Clary watched the colour drain from Jace's face. Wait, had Alec said about her being Valentine's daughter? And now he was in New York? But that was impossible; her father was dead, wasn't he?

"And Jonathan?" Jace asked, hastily tripping into jeans and a shirt before sliding into the protective jacket and yanking the sword, which Clary could see now was strapped to a belt, around his waist.

An unexpected plume of anger flared in her chest. Replica, her ass. What else had Jace been hiding from her?

"Not yet," Alec said. "But it's likely only a matter of time. I need to get you and Clarissa out of here. Word is that he's looking for both of you."

It was only then that Clary seemed to find her voice.

"Jace," she croaked, and he turned to her, eyes full of pain. "What the hell is going on?"


	8. Chapter 8

A/n: as with _Before We Turn,_ I will be sending snippets for the next chapter to any reviewers. Thank you for your loyalty, i want to reward you! If you want a special treat, R&R!

* * *

Chapter 8

* * *

"Jace," Clary croaked, and he turned to her, looking stricken. "What the hell is going on?"

"You haven't told her?" Alec demanded.

Jace flushed, though beneath the scarlet he'd gone pale.

"I couldn't. The Clave—"

"Oh I see," Alec said with bitterness. "But it was okay to sleep with her, right?"

"Alec!"

"Tell me what?" Clary interjected, clutching the sheet tighter to her chest. "And who or what is The Clave?"

"We don't have time for this," Alec said in reply, and there was an enmity in his artic gaze Clary was sure she hadn't earned. "Get dressed and let's go."

"No," she said in defiance, looking between him and Jace as she rose and wrapped the sheet around herself. "Not until someone tells me what the hell is going on."

When neither of them answered, she grew indignant.

"Jace!"

Jace seemed to be studiously avoiding her gaze, and when he did finally look up and meet her eye, his expression was pain-soaked and penitent.

"By the Angel," Alec said, rolling his eyes, but Jace ignored him, approaching Clary and taking gentle but firm hold of her shoulders.

Despite the warmth of his touch, she tried to jerk away from him.

"Get off me," she snapped, but he didn't relent.

"Please," he all but begged. "I promise I'll explain everything later, but right now, we have to go."

She shook her head, and his finger's tightened.

"Please, Clary, I'm begging you."

Clary traded a hard look with Alec over Jace's shoulder before nodding.

"Thank you," Jace breathed, touching her cheek before turning back and stuffing a sullen Alec through the doorframe and into the cramped hall.

The door slammed shut behind him, and though Clary had been tempted to press an ear to the door, it quickly became apparent there was no need; the minute the boys got into the living room, Alec began to yell, his voice perfectly audible.

"I can't _believe_ you," he snarled at Jace. "I can't believe you would lie to my face like that!"

"Alec, I'm sorry—"

"How long?" Alec said. His tone was thin and furious, but beneath it Clary could hear a tidal pool of pain.

When Jace didn't answer, Alec pressed him.

"How long, Jace?"

"Since the night at Artica," Jace said. "Or a few weeks after, I guess. Iz couldn't make her shift one morning, and I covered for her. Clary and I ended up going to a party and I—we—we've been seeing each other since then."

"Sleeping together, you mean."

"What?" Jace said. "No!"

"What do you mean 'no?'" Alec snarled. "I just caught you bollocks deep!"

"It's more than that," Jace said in a pleading tone. "I love her."

Alec scoffed.

"And yet you've had no problem lying to her this whole time about her father and the Angel only knows what else. She has no idea what you are, does she? No idea that before she was your girlfriend, she was your _assignment_."

Clary—by this point—was nearly dressed, but at this, she froze.

She supposed she'd known since Alec had burst in that Jace had been keeping things from her, but hearing that word—assignment—and the contemptuous way Alec had said it, made her heart hurt. She thought of the way Jace had watched her in class, the way he'd always seemed to magically appear wherever she was, whether it was the bar or the yoga studio or even her dorm.

A frost settled over all the memories they'd made together, the warmth which had burned in them guttering out and leaving her feelng hollowed out and cold. The boot she'd been holding slipped from slack fingers and clattered to the floor.

"Clary?"

The door banged open as Jace burst back into the room in alarm, but Clary only shook her head, tears in her eyes.

"Stay away from me,"She said, backing away.

"Clary," Jace said again more softly. "Please."

"Who are you?" she grit out through tears, willing herself not to break down. "I want the truth."

"I'm the man who loves you," Jace said in earnest. "And I swear that when this is over I will tell you whatever you want to know, but right now, I have to get you out of here."

Clary surveyed Jace's dark clothes and weapon's belt, which was now fully equipped, with apprehension. His sleeves were rolled to the elbow, and she could see what looked like fresh tattoo glittering on his forearm. All the languid grace had been wrung out of him, replaced by a jagged energy that permeated the space like a silent battle cry. However, when she looked into his eyes, they were the same gilded amber ones she'd fallen in love with, and her shoulders fell away from her ears with a heaving sigh as she looked up at him. Worry had etched his features into marble, making him look—though troubled—more handsome than ever.

"Jace," Alec said in what now sounded almost like anguished desperation. "We _have_ to go. We've been here way too long already."

He drew an object about the length of a pencil to Jace, though it looked like it had been tooled out of pewter, and instead of lead, the tip was a pulsating blue stone,

Clary stared at it in fascination, feeling something about the instrument pulling at her imagination, or her memory, she wasn't sure. However, Jace flinched away from it, as it the light from its odd tip was hurting his eyes.

"I can't," he croaked, turning away towards Clary. He was enough taller than her than when he lean into her protectively, his jaw was pressed into her temple.

"It has to be done," Alec said, though his voice had grown less harsh, his dark brows synched up in a gesture of sympathetic pain. "If you don't want to, I can—"

"No," Jace said immediately, accepting the—Clary wanted to call it a wand, even knowing that was absurd—from Alec.

He turned back to her, his gaze weighed down by guilt.

"I'm sorry," was all he said before he grabbed her wrist, slashing the instrument across her forearm in three elegant arcs and leaving—to Clary's amazement and horror—a black glyph behind. She recognised it; Jace had the same one on his left bicep.

"What the fuck," she demanded hoarsely, rubbing. at her still-burning skin. "Did you just do to me?"

"It's a rune," Alec said as if that much were obvious. "It will keep anyone from being able to track you."

"What? How can a tattoo—"

"It's a rune," Alec said again. "Not a tattoo. Keep up, Fairchild."

Clary opened her mouth to protest, or perhaps to demand how he knew her mother's maiden name, but she was interrupted.

"Ease up," a new voice echoed from the doorway. "This is all new to her."

Isabelle Lightwood stood in the doorway, dressed in the same black gear both boys wore. However, instead of army boots, she wore spindly black stillettoes that made her nearly six feet tall. She look beautiful and fierce, like Athena or Artemisia of Caria.

"Iz," Jace breathed in relief, but Isabelle gave him a cool look in response. "I told you this was going to blow up in your face," she snapped. "Valentine had no idea Clarissa was in New York. He only found her because he was looking for you."

Jace paled.

"I hope you're happy," Isabelle finished before turning to Clary, her dark eyes surprisingly warm. "I'm Isabelle," she said, extending a hand.

"Clary," Clary replied, feeling slightly dazed.

"I know," Isabelle said. "Right, are we ready? We need to go."

"Where?" Jace asked, handing the glowing pen he'd used on Clary back to Alec.

"We have to get Clarissa back to the Institute," Alec said. "Half The Clave is already out looking for her."

"No," Jace said flatly. "Valentine's just mysteriously figured out where Clary is after twenty years of looking for her? I don't like it; it could be that Circle Members have infiltrated The Clave."

"Or maybe Iz is right, and you led him right to her."

"If you're right," Isabelle said to Jace before a proper argument could break out. "What do you suggest we do?"

Jace considered, bending a look of fierce love and protectiveness on Clary.

"We take her to her stepdad's in Brooklylin. Greymark's friends with most the pack leaders in New York; They can look out for her until we figured out what to do next."

"Pack leaders?" Clary repeated stupidly, not even having the energy to question why Jace had called Luke Greymark instead of Garroway.

Alec rolled his eyes.

"You really don't know anything about your life, do you?"

"Alec, not now," Isabelle warned. "What will we tell The Clave. They'll be furious we let her go."

"We'll tell them she went on her own. It makes sense she'd go there; term's almost over. We'll tell them Lucian's already taken her across the border into Canada."

"They'll never believe it," Alec protested.

"They will from me," Jace said with grim determination, looking at Clary again. He suddenly looked years older, so much more man than boy. "They have to."

"And if they decide to put that story to the Soul Sword?" Alec said, and Jace shot him a blazing look.

""Fine," Isabelle interrupted, taking Clary gently by the elbow. "You two go back to the Institute. I'll take Clary Brooklyn."

Again, Clary thought to ask how they knew that was were Luke lived, but by this point she'd accepted asking questions was fruitless. It was clear she wouldn't be getting answers any time soon.

Jace seemed to be avoiding looking at Clary directly, and instead he drew a slim bill fold from his back pocket and pulled out a crisp fifty, stuffing it into Isabelle's hand.

"Take a cab," he instructed. "Have them go through the Battery tunnel. Water will make you harder to track even if you are being followed."

Isabelle's expression was grave.

"Let's just pray we aren't."

"I will," Jace said. "Believe me."

It was only then that his amber eyes dragged back to Clary, blazing like heavenly fire. He studied her for a moment before reaching to touch her cheek with reverence, as if she were a holy relic. When she did not pull away, he wrapped a hand around her neck and pulled her flush against him.

His touch was desperate, teeth scraping her tongue as he sought to devour her. She made a small noise against him mouth even as she felt his body stirring against her, making her stomach tighten. She remember how happy she'd been an hour ago, how euphoric it had been lying under Jace knowing he loved her as much as she loved him. Finally, he relented, breathing heavily from the effort. His gaze flitted over her shoulder to rest on Alec for the briefest of moments before he looked back at Clary, pressing his forehead to hers.

"I love you," he breathed against her lips, kissing her heatedly again.

"I'm still furious with you," she replied serously, and he clenched his jaw, eyes still screwed shut.

"I know. But I promise when this is over that I will tell you anything you want to know."

Clary nodded as he ran a hand down her silky curls, eyes skating to Isabelle.

"Take care of her," he pleaded. "Please."

He eyed Clary mournfully as Isabelle tugged her away, out of his protective embrace.

"I will," Isabelle said. "I promise. Come along, Clarissa."

Clary opened her mouth to speak, to tell Jace she loved him too, but Isabelle was already ushering her out to the door, tugging her down the stairs by the wrist.

"Stay here," she instructed. "I'll hail a cab."

Clary nodded as Isabelle disappeared back into the snowy night. After a moment Isabelle's dark head reappeared, and Clary followed her out. Isabelle all but shoved her into the cab.

"Park Slope," she snapped at the driver, and Clary watched him roll his eyes in the mirror.

Isabelle then slammed the partition shut and—with almost blinding speed—drew a similar instrument to the one Alec had had, flicking a symbol on the glass without the cabbie noticing. Clary gave her a quizzical look, and she shrugged.

"Silencing rune. The last thing we need is the Mundanes is a panic."

So much of that didn't make sense to Clary that she didn't even bother to ask.

"So," Isabelle said almost casually. "You must have a lot of questions."

"Yeah," Clary said, dazed. "I suppose I do."

"I figured," Isabelle said sagely. "Well let's start with the basics. Everything you know about the world is wrong, all the stories are true, and you're not human."

"I—" Clary croaked. "What?"

"You're Nephilim."

"I'm what?"

"A shadowhunter. Half angel, half human. A warrior sworn by your blood to protect that world from demons."

As they slithered under the Battery Park underpass, Isabelle began—with great efficiency—to explain. About Jonathan Shadowhunter and his covenant with the angel Raziel, and about all the gifts Raziel had given his children. She then explained who Clary's father was, what he'd started, and the role her mother had played in quelling the uprising. Clary didn't dare interrupt, partly because she was too in shock, and partly because, somehow, it all made sense to her. She'd always known, deep down, that there was something different about her, and when she thought about the strange but familiar Otherness she'd recognised in Jace, it seemed to click. When Isabelle reached that part of the story about how she, Alec, and Jace had been assigned to watch Clary, her heart ached. Despite everything, she hadn't wanted to believe her relationship hadn't been based on anything more than mutual admiration. She'd often wondered why a guy that could have had any girl he wanted was so interested in her, and the cold, calculated truth of it hurt.

Isabelle noticed her distress, she paused.

"Hey," she said softly. "I know this is hard to hear, but you should know that Jace—" she paused. "I've never seen him like this. I've known him since he was ten years old, and even though I love him like a brother, there's always been this distance about him. It was like he was only half awake. But when he met you—it was as if he'd finally woken up. Clary, I've never seen him so alive. At this point I don't blame you for doubting him, but one thing you shouldn't doubt is that he loves you. I can see it in his eyes, and I know you can, too."

Clary looked into her lap, nodding. Sensing that she needed a minute, Isabelle slid open the partition with a snap.

"Is there any way you could go faster?" she said archly as they made they way down FDR along the river. "We're kind of in a hurry."

"You and everyone else in this city," the man grumbled, and Isabelle gave him a sour look, slamming the partition closed again and slumping back.

"So what about my stepdad?" Clary asked. "You said he was part of this, too."

Isabelle glanced over at her.

"I think that's probably a conversation you should have with him yourself," she said finally.

By this time they'd reached the mouth of the Battery Tunnel, and as they hurdled towards it, Isabelle glanced up and screamed.

"What the—" the cabbie began, but suddenly they slammed into an invisible barrier, throwing all three of them violently forward.

"The fuck was that?" the man demanded, but Isabelle was already grabbing Clary's right hand and scrawling a rune that looked like an open eye on the back of it.

"What's going—" the man started again, but Isabelle waved him off.

"Get out of here!" she screamed at him. "Run!"

"What? No way! I rent this—"

There was a horrible screech like tearing metal.

"Go!" Isabelle said.

He finally did as he was bid, even as Isabelle was sliding out of the back seat.

"Clary, stay here. Do not get out of the car for any reason, understand?"

"But what—" Clary said, and that's when she saw them.

Huge, hulking creatures like great scorpions, their pincers snapping as they hissed. They were advancing on the cab, but suddenly Isabelle was up and out, the serpent bracelet she'd been wearing slithering into a glittering whip. She wielded it with a deftness that seemed impossible, felling two of the creatures with ease. There were more approaching, scuttling out of the bridge's dark mouth and clambering over the stone barrier that separated the street from the river beyond.

Clary thought to get out and help Isabelle, even as she acknowledged she didn't have the means to do so. She didn't have a weapon, and she wouldn't know how to use it even if she did. More likely than not, she'd just put Isabelle in more danger.

So she watched helplessly as Isabelle lay about herself with her whip, felling demons with a savage cry. As they crumpled, screeching, Clary watched them disappear. Still, Isabelle seemed to be getting the better of them, and just when Clary's heart began to unclench, she saw a figure morph out of the darkness, as if they'd appeared from thin air. Isabelle, distracted by the demons, hadn't noticed, and Clary felt her blood go cold as the figure, clearly a man, advanced the cab with purpose. He wore dark gear like the rest of them and his hood was drawn, but he lowered it as he approached.

He was tall and impossibly handsome, with hair so fair it was almost white, and a face that would have made Narcissus sick with envy. He had high, arched cheekbones and a perfect bow mouth, which curved into a cruel smirk as he reached the cab, wrenching the door open. Clary vainly tried to scramble back and out the other side, but he grabbed her by the ankle, tugging her until he could grab her by the collar and drag her out.

"Clarissa," he purred in an accent something like Jace, Isabelle, and Alec's. "My little angel. _There_ you are."

"Who are you?" she croaked, struggling as he looped and arm around her waist and crushed her against him.

"Oh, you're find out soon enough."

His free hand, the one not holding her, began to grope around in her back pocket. She realised, after a moment, that he was looking for her phone, and she fought to wrench free.

He only laughed, a low, smooth sound like the bass strings of a cello.

"If you keep wiggling like that," he said, readjusting him grip on so their bodies were flush against each other. " I'm going to make you finish what you're starting."

She froze as a hot wave of revulsion roiled in her stomach, and he took quick advantage, sliding the phone from her back pocket and holding it up and out of her reach. She strained to reach it, but he only laughed again. He had to have been close to six foot four, and she was barely five two on her best days.

"Give it back!" she demanded, but he was no longer looking at her, his obsidian eyes angling up to the screen. After a second he found what he was looking for, and he pressed it to his ear, smirking at her.

"Let's call Jace," he suggested, seizing both her wrist in a vice she couldn't break. "He'll be _dying_ to know you're safe."

* * *

Jace and Alec said nothing to each other as they descended the stairs into the 33rd street station. Alec had wanted to take a cab up to the Upper East Side, but it was nearly ten o'clock now, and the city had come alive with activity, thickening traffic and making cabs scarce. After several minutes of fruitlessly attempting to hail one, they turned wordlessly up the street to the subway, Jace checking his phone every few steps.

The six had blissfully been arriving as they approached, and they passed through the turnstyle unseen and sank down into two empty seats. They were glamoured, and Alec hissed in annoyance when an older woman attempted to sit on his lap.

After scowling she retreated to another open spot farther down the train, and Alec crossed his arms. Jace watched his parabatai keenly as they trundled down the track, and only when the doors slid open at 59th and Lex did he finally speak.

"Alec," he said. "I'm sorry, okay? I didnt mean to lie to you."

"Fuck your sorry," Alec sneered. "I don't want to hear it. Besides, if you were _actua_ _lly_ sorry, you wouldn't have done it in the first place."

"I didn't want to," Jace said, and he meant it. "I just couldn't risk—"

"So it's just that don't trust me," Alec interrupted sourly. "That's so much better.."

"Of course I trust you! You're my parabatai."

"Then you should have told me the truth!" Alec burst.

"If I had, what would you have done?"

Alec glared, eyes full of more than mere indignance. Jace could see betrayal shining in them, and something darker besides.

"Can you honestly tell me you wouldn't have gone to The Clave?"

Alec didn't answer, and Jace felt his own sense of betrayal flaring, a dull rage swelling along with it.

"Exactly," he snapped. They were at 86th now, about 17 blocks from the Institute. " _That's_ why I didn't tell you."

"You shouldn't have done it in the first place!" Alec roared.

"Done what? Fallen in love?"

Alec's eyes blazed.

"Fallen in love with _her_."

"Oh, I see," Jace said with a bitter laugh. "That's what this is about."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Jace growled in frustration, knowing he shouldn't say more even as he felt the words falling from his lips.

"You think I don't see the way you look at me?" he demanded. "You think I haven't noticed that you're _in love with me_?"

"What," Alec snarled, rising to his feet. "Did you just say to me?"

"I know," Jace continued, springing up at well. "I've known for a while."

Alec looked murderous, but after a moment of glaring the nastiness snipped, and Jace could see he really had been right.

"Alec—" he began, touching his parabatai's shoulder, but Alec shrugged him off.

"Don't fucking touch me."

"Look, I'm not mad," Jace said. "But I can't give you what you want. I do love you, but not like—"

"Get over yourself, Herondale," Alec said. "I'm not in love with you."

"Then kiss me right now and prove it."

Alec looked at him, and Jace could tell, despite everything, that part of him desperately wanted to.

"I'm not—" Alec began, but suddenly Jace's phone began to ring, and Alec looked away as Jace drew it out.

"Clary," he said, studying Alec still. "What's going—"

"Hey, little brother," a cool voice answered instead. "So good to hear your voice."

"Jonathan," Jace croaked, and Alec's eyes snapped up. "Where's Clary?"

"She's with me," Jonathan said. "I can see why you're so taken with her; she's so _deliciously_ feisty."

"If you touch a single hair on her head," Jace said, feeling like something had reached into his chest wrenched at his heart. "I will strip the flesh from your fucking bones."

Jonathan only laughed.

"Then you better get her before I take a piece for myself," he purred. "I bet she looks incredible naked."

"What do you want?" Jace croaked, feeling tears burning in his throat.

"Get off at 96th," Jonathan instructed. "Pangborn and Blackwell are waiting for you. And don't think about calling The Council. If you do, I'll know."

Jace glanced up. They were nearing the 96th station now.

"What do you—" he began, but the line went dead even as the doors slid open.

Jace sprang out, Alec on his heels. He took the stairs four at a time, using the lithe muscles in his quadriceps to propel him upward. Only when they'd reached the landing did Alec catch him, slamming him against the wall.

"Are you fucking insane?" he pleaded. "Don't do this, Jace!"

"What choice do I have?" Jace croaked, eyes wild with panic. "I'm not going to leave her."

"I know," Alec said. "But we should at least—"

"At least what?" Jace roared. "I can't go to The Clave, and besides, they know where we are; we'd never make it."

Alec's expression was anguished, but Jace could see his resolve softening.

"Please, Alec," Jace said. "As my parabatai. Help me do this."

Finally, Alec nodded, and Jace wrenched away and back up the stairs. No sooner had he emerged than someone was clapping a hand on his elbow, tugging him past Mundanes into shadow. He turned, snarling, to face beady-eyed Emil Pangborn.

"Where are you taking me?" he demanded. "Where's Clary? I want to see her."

"All in good time," Pangborn rasped, stuffing Jace into a unmarked black SUV. "Your father would like to speak with you first."

Jace, turned, panicked to watch Alec being dragged in the opposite direction.

"Alec!"

"Cooperate and we won't hurt him," Pangborn said, sliding in beside Jace and slamming the door shut.

Jace gave a final protest as a blindfold was forced over his eyes, shutting out his last view of Alec and the tires squealed and the car sped off.

"What does Valentine want with me?" Jace demanded as they rode.

"You can ask him yourself," Pangborn said. Wherever they were going, they were making excellent time. They were on FDR, Jace guessed, hurdling away from The Institute and back downtown. "Until then, I'd advise you keep your trap shut."

The petulant child in Jace thought to bite back, but when he heard Jonathan's voice echoing in his head, the words died on his tongue. Clary was leverage, he kept telling himself. That meant they wouldn't kill her. Still, he couldn't bear to think what they might do to her instead, or how scared she must be. He thought of Isabelle, then, a pang going through him. She was much less valuable to The Circle. Still, she was leverage, too. Valentine had to know that Jace would never help him if they hurt her.

The car jerked as they skiddered left onto a bridge. The Queensboro, Jace guessed. But why? Either they were crossing over into Long Island City, or—

His heart thudded wetly in his chest. Renwick's; it was the only other portal in the city. Valentine was going to drag him back to Idris.

Several minutes later they stopped, and Jace was wrenched from the car, Pangborn dragging him down a gravel path. The blindfold was ripped off in time for Jace to take in the old smallpox hospital. It had been designed to look like a Gothic tudor, but time had ravaged the facade, and it spoke now of decay and despair.

Pangborn shoved him up the front stairs, and unable to bear it any longer, Jace snarled and pushed back, teeth bared. This earned him a savage jab in the gut, and Pangborn seized him by the hair and dragged him inside.

The interior was even more eerie than the exterior, and though he couldn't see them, Jace could tell by the frigid temperature that the place was choked with ghosts.

Pangborn put a seraph blade to Jace's back and ushered him into a room off the main hall, slamming it shut behind him. Jace eyed the worn oak with enmity and despair before turning to face the lone figure in the room.

Valentine looked exactly as Jace remembered him, with the same dark eyes and salt white hair. He smiled as Jace approached.

"Father," he said, furious at himself for a small tug in his chest. "Where's Clary? Give me back to me."

"Eleven years," Valetine said in reply. "And that's all the hello I get? Come closer, Jonathan, let me look at you."

Jace considered ignoring this request, but when he thought of Clary he acquiesced.

"You're a man now," Valentine observed, his smooth voice touched with what sounded almost like pride. "And you do look so like Stephen."

"Enough small talk," Jace said. "Where is Clary?"

Valentine ignored him, picking up a crystal decanter that sat on the worn table.

"Wine?"

When Jace only glared in response, he shrugged, pouring himself one instead.

"Clary—" Jace began again, but Valentine cut him off with a gesture.

"It's funny how life goes," Valentine said. "After I found out that my Jocelyn had died, I was sure that Clarissa was no use to me. I never knew that Jocelyn was pregnant, you see, so unlike you and your brother, she bears no special blood."

"He's not my brother," Jace grit out, and Valentine's eyes flashed.

"That's where you're wrong," Valentine said. "The blood of the Angel Ithuriel runs in both your veins."

Jace felt that same blood go cold. There had been rumours in Alicante that Valentine had experimented on Jonathan, mixed the blood of an Angel with that of the demon Lilith and somehow managed, through the Mortal Cup, to make the child Nephilim instead of Fae. Jace hadn't wanted to believe it, fearing that if Jonathan was an experiment, he might be too.

"What do you want?" he croaked instead.

"For you to join me," Valentine said simply. "I'm sure you know by now that I plan to bring war to the Council, and I want you to be at my side with your brother."

"No," Jace said automatically. "I would rather die."

Valentine shrugged, though Jace could see a dull rage sharpening his features.

"I figured you might say that," he admitted. "That's why Clarissa is so valuable to me. Let's not pretend you wouldn't do absolutely anything to save her."

Jace wanted to bite out that he wouldn't, that he would be willing to let her die to uphold his covenant with the Angel and protect the world from his father's darkness. He couldn't, though, he realised with anguish. He was too selfish to. Clary had been a light when he'd been sure he was destined to live his life in total darkness, and he couldn't put it out now, even knowing it was what she would want him to do.

"If I go with you," Jace whispered. "Will you let her go?"

Valentine's onyx eyes glittered.

"You have my word."

"No," Jace said. "I want more than that. I want an oath."

Valentine smiled, though his gaze remained cold. There was a oath ruin that had been invented in the days of the first Shadowhunters, twin ruins of binding that, if freely accepted, would uphold a bargain on pain of death. It had been outlawed some time in the 19th century, when it was discovered that men like Valentine could use it to enslave gullible acolytes into doing their bidding. Still, it had still not been stricken from the Grey Book, and Jace could see it in his mind's eye.

"You drive a hard bargain, boy," Valentine observed.

"You said yourself that Clary's of no use to you. I'm the one you want. Let her go, and I'm yours."

"Very well," Valentine said. "But you will have to give her up as well. I can't have you running off after her the minute my back is turned."

Jace considered, throat dry. He knew what it would mean for him. As long as Valentine was alive, he could never seen Clary again. Quite possibly, he would _never_ see her again. He thought of the look in her jade eyes as she'd confessed to loving him, and even though it had only been several hours ago, it felt like a lifetime.

He hadn't cried since he was six years old, since Valentine had snapped his falcon's neck in one of the cruelest lessons he'd ever given Jace. Still, Jace realised he was fighting down tears now, and he grit his teeth. Perhaps Valentine had been right that day in Idris; to be loved really was to be the one destroyed.

"Give Clary back to me and let me send her away, and then I'll go with you."

"I'll give you until dawn," Valentine countered. "If you aren't back here by then, our contract will be void, and Clarissa will pay the price."

"What?" Jace croaked. "No, you can't do that. The covenant's between you and me."

"The covenant will be between _Clarissa_ and me. It's the only way I can guarantee your cooperation."

"No," Jace croaked. "I won't do it."

"Then she's dead anyway. Don't think this is the only means I have to compel you. In fact, it's only because I love you that I'm willing to indulge it at all."

Jace was fighting down a mounting hysteria.

"Going once, Jonathan. Pledge your loyalty and your darling beloved goes free."

"Please," Jace begged. "I'll do whatever you ask. Just leave her out of it."

"Do as I ask and she will remain out of it," Valentine agreed. "Her safety's in your hands now."

Jace grit his teeth to keep down a sob, though his vision blurred with unshed tears.

"Going twice. This is not a punishment, Jonathan; it is an _honour_. A chance to take a seat at my side and uphold my legacy. It is my gift to you and your brother."

The sob crawled free as Jace took a breath.

"Last change, boy," Valentine snapped. "Pledge your loyalty, or I will make your watch as I bleed the life out of her."

In response, Jace thrust his arm out blindly. Valentine grabbed his forearm in the manner of Old Rome, drawing his stele.

"I, Valentine Morgenstern, swear that so long as my son, Jonathan Christopher Herondale, remains dutifully at my side, Clarissa Fairchild shall remain free. However, should he stray, she will meet death at his hands, and his alone."

He drew the stele across both of their arms, and Jace screamed as it sizzled, scorching, up his veins. He wanted, even now, to pull away, to rescind the promise, knowing what it had just cost him. Not only Clary, he realised, but his ability to ever help his friends defeat Valentine. However, he could feel the oath slither up into his chest, and he heaved in pain as it wormed it's way into his heart.

Valentine released his crushing grip, and Jace collapsed to the floor, sobbing.

"I see there is still weakness in you," he said in mild disgust. "I admit it is disappointing, but not irreparable."

With that he snapped his fingers, and the doors slid open. Jace looked up as Pangborn emerged, Clary held limply in his arms. He set her down before retreating to stand at Valentine's side.

"You have until dawn," Valentine reminded him, retreating to the portal set into an antique mirror on the wall. Jace could see the rolling hills of Brocelind plane beyond. "I'll be expecting you."

With that, they both disappeared through the portal, leaving Jace and Clary alone. Jace got up and half stumbled over to her, drawing her into his arms and weeping into her fiery hair. Her breathing was slow but steady, and he could feel the beat of her heart.

"I'm sorry," he told her, rocking slightly. "I'm so sorry, Clary."

He thought to wake her, not even sure how, before realising he couldn't bear to face her. It would be selfish to tell her now how much he loved her, knowing that what she needed now was to forget him. After several minutes of desperate contemplation, he lifted her carefully into his arms and approached the portal. There was only one place he could think to go. He only prayed he'd be able to coerce the help he so desperately needed.

He'd only been to the handsome Greenpoint loft one time before, but he drew forth the memory of it with everything he had, and when he raised his head, he found himself looked at the brownstone. He raced through, tearing across the street to the front door and laying on the bell.

"Magnus!" he cried. "Magnus Bane! It's Jace Herondale. Please, let me in. I need you help!"

There was a soft click of the intercom.

"Go away, Shadowhunter. I'm busy."

Jace grit his teeth.

"Please," he said. "I'm desperate."

"Unless you have that dreamy blue-eyed friend of yours with you," Magnus said coolly. "I'm not interested. Try me again another time. The third Wednesday of never, perhaps."

"It's not for me. I—it's for Clary Fairchild."

This was met with dead air, but just as Jace began to panic, the door unlocked with a click, and he darted inside.

Magnus was waiting for him on the threshold of his door, looking irritated. However, at seeing Clary lying limp in Jace's arms, his expression softened. He opened his door with a snap of his fingers.

"Bring her inside."

Jace did as he was bid, carrying Clary in and laying her gently down on a soft devan. The place had been designed to resemble a roman vila, completed with marble pillars and a pluvium, pool and all.

Magnus shouldered past Jace and knelt at Clary's side, checking her pulse as his fingers sparked blue.

"What is it you need me to do?" Magnus asked. "Wake her up? If so, there's no need. She'll wake up on her own in a few hours."

"No, I—" Jace began. "I need you to take he memories."

Magnus's cat eyes flicked to Jace, flashing with menace.

"Absolutely not."

"But you did it before,didn't you? When—"

"I did that as a great personal favour to her mother, because Jocelyn was my friend, and as a downworlder I owed her a debt for what she did during The Uprising. But when she died, I swore I would never do it again."

"Please," Jace said. "She's in terrible danger."

"Taking her memories won't change that," Magnus pointed out. "It will only leave her oblivious to it, and I won't do that to her. Not again, and not while her father's on the loose."

"Please, he's the _reason_ I need you to take her memories. If you don't, she'll be—"

"What the Hell did you do?" Magnus demanded.

Jace bit his lip.

"I had to. It was the only way to keep her safe."

Magnus's jaw tightened.

"Does Lucian know?"

Jace shook his head.

"No one does. Please, just take away her memories of the Shadow World and send her to Florence."

"How is that going to help?" Magnus snapped.

"I can't explain," Jace said. "But, please, just trust me. Do this for her, and she'll be safe."

Magnus considered, but his feline gaze remained stony.

"I don't work for free, Angel Boy," he said finally.

"I'll give you anything," Jace said for the second time that evening. "Anything you want. Name it, and it's yours."

Magnus grit his teeth.

"A favour, then, Herondale," he agreed at last, fingers sparking blue again. "But rest assured it's going to be a big one."

Jace nodded as Magnus bent over Clary.

"Take everything," Jace croaked. "Everything about the Shadow World. Valentine, Jonathan, The Clave—everything."

"Oh," Magnus said with searing distain. "Is that all?"

Jace considered, feeling his heart crumbling to ash.

"And me," he said in a broken voice. "Take her memories of us, too."

Magnus's eyes snapped up and he paused momentarily.

"No," he said. "Those I won't take."

"What?" Jace said. "Why?"

"Because whatever trouble this poor little biscuit is in, you put her there, and I owe it to her mother to keep that from happening again. Besides, if you're going to break her heart, you'll have to do it herself."

"No please," Jace begged. "This will destroy her."

"Good," Magnus said. "At least she'll be saved the pain for crossing paths with you wretched Nephilim again."

"Magnus—"

"I said no!" Magnus snarled. "I won't fucking do it."

Jace collapsed to the floor. His own heartbreak, he could bear; he'd borne it all his life. He wasn't sure he could bear Clary's as well. The weight of it would surely crush him.

Magnus worked for several more minutes in stony silence, ignoring Jace as the tears leaked from his eyes. Finally, he stood.

"I'll portal you back to Midtown," Magnus said tersely. "She'll be awake in an hour or so."

Jace nodded in defeat, gently lifting Clary again. Magnus conjured a shimmering doorway with a wave of his hands, gesturing for Jace to go through.

"If anything happens to her," Magnus warned. "I will be holding your responsible."

Jace nodded as the portal slammed shut behind him. It was nearly four am now, and the street was deserved as he carried Clary to her door room and laid her down. He sat, head in his hands for what seemed like ages, before her heard a soft moan.

"Jesus," Clary croaked. "I feel like I've been hit by a train. What the Hell happened last night?"

She was smiling despite her tone, and Jace felt himself beginning to unravel again.

"I think you and Lewis might have celebrated a little too hard," he said. "Listen Clary, we need to talk."

"Can it wait until after breakfast?" she said, wincing as she sat up. "I need coffee and bacon."

"No," he choked, looking out the window. The predawn glow was struggling to break through the evening's fog, and his heart was in his throat. "It's important."

She frowned.

"Is everything alright?" she asked.

He bowed his head. He'd told thousands of lies in his life, a fair few of them to Clary, but he knew this one would be the hardest to bear.

"There's something I need to tell you."

"Jace," she breathed, frowning deepening. "What's going on?"

"When I was in Johannesburg," he soldiered on. "I ran into my ex girlfriend, and we—" he broke off, anguished by the expression that blossomed across her features, like a bud of Nightshade unfurling it's deadly petals.

"You cheated on me?" she croaked. "Why?"

"Please don't cry," Jace begged, but it was too late.

"How could you do this to me?" she whispered brokenly. "I—Jace, I love you."

He grit his teeth.

"I know you do. And I—I care about you, too."

Her face crumpled, as if the flower were being crushed to make the poison.

"But you don't love me," she said, looking down.

It was almost too much to withstand, and if he hadn't made the vow to his father, he would have taken her away then and then, consequences be damned.

"No," he said finally, willing his voice not to shake. He had to do this, he told himself. It was the _only_ way. "I don't."

At this she began to sob, burying her face in her small hands.

"You're breaking up with me," she said in misery. "Aren't you?"

"I'm going back home," he said honestly.

"To be with her?" she asked.

He bowed his head, not wanting to invent any more hideous lies. He could see he'd already broken her heart. There was no point in adding to the misery.

"I'm sorry, Clary," he croaked. "Truly."

"Why would you do this?" she demanded, wiping at her tears. "If you still love her, why did you string me along like this?"

"I didn't mean to. It just—happened."

"Just happened?" she demanded, eyes hardening. "I let you take my virginity. And that was _after_ you came back! Why would you do that if you still had feelings for her?"

"Clary—" he begged, but she cut him off.

"Get out," she snarled. "Get the fuck out."

"I'm so sorry," he choked.

This brought a fresh wave of tears flooding into her mesmerizing jade gaze.. She was still beautiful, even with red-rimmed eyes and blotchy cheeks. He thought, with a stabbing pain in his chest, what it could have been like to wake up to those eyes for the rest of his life, even knowing he'd never get to find out.

"I hate you," she sobbed. "Please, just leave me alone."

She was looking down as he rose, and he wished she would look at him so he could tell her one last time, even if only with a look. _I love you. I love you more than starlight._

"Get out!" she screamed, and he all but fled the room, feeling as if someone had rent open his chest, exposing his heart and lungs to the Artic December air.

It was still mostly dark when he emerged, and he decided to walk the five miles back to Renwick's. Dawn was clawing at the sky by the time he arrived, the crepuscular light bathing the figure seated on the front steps. They rose as he approached, and he yearned for a seraph blade so badly his fingers ached.

"There he is," Jonathan said with an easy grin. "My baby brother, come home at last. Don't you just look like Hell."

"Fuck you, Jace said weakly, ascending the stairs with head bent.

Jonathan's arm shot out, squeezing Jace's bicep hard enough to crack his humera.

"Watch your tone, young man," he said, and Jace could hear rage lurking under the mirth.

"Where's Father?" Jace asked instead, wanting so desperately to put the whole evening behind him.

"In Idris, waiting for us."

Jace nodded weakly as Jonathan drew a blade, stamped with the three of Morgenstern stars, from his back, pushing the door open wit the tip.

"So," he said, walking backwards so he could face Jace again. "What did you tell Clary? It must have been really cruel; she seemed pretty hung up on you."

"Don't talk to me about Clary," Jace said. "Please."

Jonathan shrugged. They'd reached the portal now, and Jace stared once again at the Idrisian countryside.

"You ought to wipe that sadsack look off your face, then," Jonathan said, pushing Jace to the very brink if the portal. "You know how Father hates weakness. Besides," he paused, preparing to shove Jace into the opening. "We have work to do."


	9. Chapter 9: Three Years Later

You're My Nothing: Chapter Nine

* * *

 _Three Years Later..._

* * *

Jace sat alone on the roof of the Lightwood's handsome brownstone in Alicante, watching the white smoke which dotted the Broselind plane across the river beyond. They were burning his father's body today, he knew, but he couldn't bring himself to be there. He'd dreamed of this moment many times in the last three years, dreamed of a time he'd once again be free, and the idea had always been a beacon of hope. Now, though, despite everything, he felt hollow and cold.

It had been Alec who'd been the one to do it in the end, with no small assistance from Magnus and Brother Zachariah and Jace himself. Jace found himself watching—over and over again in his mind—as Maellartech's point, tongued in Angelic flame, burst through his father's chest. Jace could still feel his father's hand on his arm as he'd crumpled, grip slackening as Jace's name—his final prayer—died on his lips.

It was justice, Jace reminded himself, that Valentine had died by the proverbial arrow he himself had fletched with the retributive fire of Heaven. Maellartech, gifted with the Heavenly Fire by the angel Raziel at Valentine's behest, had been the very flame that had consumed him, though not before he'd nearly killed Zachariah with it. He would have killed all his friends with it, Jace knew, if he himself hadn't stepped in front of the blade, surprising Valentine long enough to let Alec wrench the sword from his grip and drive it between Valentine's shoulders.

Jace touched the sore spot on his ribs were the blade had driven in, wincing a little. The Brothers still wouldn't tell Jace why he'd been able to withstand the heavenly fire, nor what had become of Zachariah, beyond insisting that he too had lived. Jace had been desperate—after everything Zachariah had done to help them—to see him when he'd awoken, but The Brother's had been quite literally tight-lipped on the issue, and finally Jace had given up asking.

Jace looked out to the smoke again, wishing he could find the inner peace he'd been so sure this moment would bring him. His father was dead and his world was safe, that was true, but it did not change the fact that Valentine was the only father Jace had ever known, and that to the end, some deep, dark, broken place in Jace had prayed for his redemption. Jonathan's too, though he knew that, more than his father's, that was something he would never— _could_ never—admit.

Jace's bargain with Valentine had stayed his hand over the many long weeks and months he'd been in the Circle's service, but it had been his blade in the end which had put his mad brother down. It, too, had been something Jace had yearned for, but watching the light die out of Jonathan's obsidian eyes had hurt him in ways he hadn't expected.

And then there was what he'd given up. He hadn't had the courage to properly think on her yet, but Jace found her name at the forefront of his thoughts, even as his father's body burned and the whole of The Clave scoured the Idrisian countryside for his brother's corpse.

"Jace?"

Jace looked up to see a figure ducking out of the window and onto the roof he was sitting on with the unmistakable grace of a Shadowhunter.

The intruder was tall and slender, and Jace could tell from his long almond eyes and his warm skin tone that at least one of his parents was from East Asia. Jace had never seen the young man,who looked about twenty-one or twenty-two, before, but Jace recognised—even through the young man's crisp Londoner's accent—his smooth voice, which Jace had heard many times before, humming pleasantly inside his mind.

"Brother Zachariah?" Jace breathed in surprise.

The boy—man— _B_ _rother?_ —only gave a soft, almost rueful smile.

"I—" Jace croaked in awe, and the corner's of Zachariah's mouth tugged up a little more. "What the fuck?"

At this, Zachariah flushed faintly and Jace had the decency to feel sheepish. No one had ever come out and said it before, but it seemed to be an unspoken rule that one didn't swear in front of the Brothers.

"Sorry," he said. "I just—"

"You're surprised," Zachariah observed. "As was I, I assure you."

"How is it possible?" Jace breathed.

"The Heavenly Fire," Zachariah explained.

"Oh," Jace breathed, too dazed to ask any more questions. "Right."

They fell into a silence that—perhaps somewhat predictably—didn't seem to bother Zachariah, who's eyes eyes were also cast out towards the curling smoke. However, it was setting Jace's teeth on edge.

"So, Zachariah, "he began. "No offense, but what are you doing here?"

Zachariah smiled, and despite the youthfulness of his features, Jace could see the depth of ages in his eyes.

"It's James, actually," he said with an affable smile. "James Carstairs. But I would prefer if you called me Jem; everyone does." At this, he broke off, giving an almost embarrassed laugh. "At least, they used to."

"Right," Jace said, not sure how to take all of that. "Makes sense."

In point of fact, it made little to no sense at all, but it seemed the polite thing to say.

"As for what I'm doing here," Jem continued. "I was looking for you. Your family is concerned about you. Your Parabatai, especially."

Jace clenched his jaw.

"I'm surprised he's stopped shagging Magnus Bane long enough to notice I'm gone."

Jace seemed to realise a second too late that he'd just aired Alec's sex life to a Silent Brother, and he flushed, glancing sideways at the aforementioned for a reaction. However, Jem only smiled.

"They seem very happy together," he said tactfully, sidestepping Jace's comment. "Magnus tells me they plan to travel the continent together now that—"

"So I've heard," Jace interrupted, not wanting to hear the rest said aloud. Despite everything, it was still too raw.

He sighed, resting his chin on his knees as he looked out over the tiled roofs again, the dying sun setting his eyes alight with lambent flame.

He was happy for Alec—of course he was—but seeing Magnus, being reminded of how he'd refused to spare Jace the pain of breaking Clary's heart, always hit him like a war hammer to the gut.

"And you?" Jem queried, sitting down next to Jace but not looking at him. He, too, was studying the horizon. "Will you go back to New York?"

Jace clenched his jaw.

"I really ought to stay here. The Clave never found my—" he broke off, clearing his throat. "Never found Jonathan's body," he finished finally. "I'm sure I don't have to tell you, of all people, how eager The Brotherhood is to examine him."

Jem nodded, though his keen expression seemed to suggest he knew what Jace was actually thinking.

"What about you? Does this mean you aren't—" Jace paused, wondering too late if it was really an appropriate question. "—a Brother anymore?"

If the question bothered Jem, he didn't show it.

"I am not."

"Right," Jace said again, trying to regain his footing in what had to be the _weirdest_ conversation he'd ever had the misfortune to participate in. "Well, if you want a list of the best strip clubs in Europe, let me know. There is this place in Prague where—"

"No," Jem said, flushing a little even as he laughed. "I don't think so. I'm headed to London. I leave this evening."

"Why?" Jace said without thinking. "The weather will be shite there this time of year."

Jem laughed again, as if remembering something with fondness.

"That's true," he agreed. "But I'm going there for the same reason I suspect you want to go back to New York."

Jace was struck momentarily dumb, and when he opened his mouth to speak, something unexpected tumbled out.

"You're going for a _woman_?" he blurted. "I have so many questions."

Jem laughed, dark eyes twinkling.

"By the Angel, but you _are_ a Herondale."

"Sorry," Jace said, flushing a little. "That was—rude."

"No," Jem said. "It's alright, I understand it must sound a bit odd. But yes, there was someone I cared for a long time ago, before I was a Brother. She is the reason for my visit, and my haste."

"And she's still—" Jace paused, knowing he was being rude again but somehow unable to stop himself. "Alive?" he finished.

"She is," Jem said agreeably. "Though she doesn't yet know of my condition. I'm going there to tell her, in person."

Jace nodded, if only because the whole thing was so bizarre, he didn't know what else to say without possibly offending Jem.

"Right," he said for what felt like the hundredth time. "That's—cool, I guess."

They sat for another minute in silence, and Jace tried not to fidget as Jem continued to study him with the practiced gaze of a Brother.

"You didn't answer my question earlier," Jem pointed out. "About New York."

"It wasn't really a question," Jace parried, contemplating whether or not he could survive a jump from the roof. It might be worth it to break a leg or two, if it got him out of the current conversation.

"Touché," Jem said mildly, smiling that genial smile. "Allow me to rephrase: is it fair for me to assume that you're going back for Clarissa?"

Jace was suddenly glad Jem could no longer read his mind, though he was sure his face told the whole story. He hadn't admitted to anyone, not even really himself, how badly he longed to set things right with Clary, and maybe even to move forward with her. More than anything, though, he needed to see her again, even if only to assure himself she was safe and happy.

"Yes," he said finally. "I am."

"Good," Jem said, surprising Jace. "Then there is something you should know about what the Angel gave her."

"Sorry?" Jace demanded, only barely managing to croak the word over another 'what the fuck?' that had risen to the tip of his tongue. "What are you talking about?"

Jem weathered his shock with practiced ease, though he didn't respond right away. Instead, he seemed to consider his answer, almond eyes glittering with quiet intelligence.

Magnus was lucky, Jace decided with spite, that Alec had fallen for him before he'd met Jem. Even as an almost painfully heterosexual guy, Jace was struck with how good-looking the former Silent Brother was.

"First," Jem said finally, turning back to look at Jace. "You must understand that everything I am about to tell you is a secret, some of which even The Council does not know.

"You're saying I can't tell anyone."

Jem shook his head.

"That would be an unfair burden to put on you, after everything you have endured. I only wish to counsel you to be judigious about whom you choose to share this information with."

Jace pursed his lips; he couldn't help it.

"Do you mean Alec?"

Again, Jem shook his head.

"I would never advocate someone lie to their Parabatai unless it was truly necessary."

Jace felt his shoulders relax as he glanced back over at Jem, though his throat went dry as his eyes fell on the familiar serpentine rune slithering out from the collar of Jem's jacket, it's colour bleached to ivory.

"You—" he began, indiciating the spot on his own neck.

Jem gave a smile that was warm but vaguely haunted before nodding.

"Yes," he admitted. "Though that is a story for another time. I meant only that as Inquisitor, Robert Lightwood is is duty-bound to share information of this gravity with the Council. If you feel the need to tell him what I am about to tell you, I understand, but—"

Jace nodded his understanding.

"No," Jace said quickly. "Whatever it is, you have my word The Council will never hear about it from me."

Jem bent a look on him that made Jace feel as if he were seeing someone else.

"Of course," Jem said, bowing his head and smiling the same deep, sad smile. "Forgive me. I know better than to doubt the confidence of a Herondale."

He said the name as if it were dear to him, and Jace felt compelled to ask where Jem's trust in The Herondales stemmed from. However, when he thought of Clary again, he brushed the urge away. There would be another chance for him to ask that question.

"Alright," Jace said after a moment. "So what did you want to tell me?"

Jem considered again before finally beginning to speak.

"Did your father ever speak to you of your bloodline, or Jonathan's?"

Jace frowned.

"A bit," he admitted. "Not much, only that we were—blessed."

"That is correct," Jem said. "More presisely, the blood of an Angel runs through both of your veins. It is the reason for both our your extraordinarily talents, and—in your case—the reason you were able to withstand the Heavenly Fire."

"How is that possible?" Jace demanded.

Jem contemplated this, as if deciding how best to proceed.

"As a young man, Valentine became obsessed with the mixing of blood to create a superior being. At first, he began with demon blood. When his wife first became pregnant, he plied her with it, thinking that it would make the baby stronger and more deadly."

"And did it?"

"No. The marks Jocelyn bore repelled the demonic energy, and she miscarried their first two children within the first term. It was then that he turned to Angelic blood. He captured an Angel, Ithuriel, hoping to mix his blood with that of a Greater Demon to achieve his means. That is how he begot Jonathan. He forced a union between Ithuriel and Lilith, from which she was able to bear Jonathan."

"She," Jace croaked. "As in Lilith?"

Jem nodded.

"But—" Jace said, feeling slightly sick. "How was she—and wouldn't that make him Fae?"

"Normally yes," Jem agreed. "But Valentine found a way to implant the child in Jocelyn instead, and ply her with more of Ithuriel's blood straight from the Mortal Cup. Through this process, Jonathan was born able to bear marks, though he remained more a child of Lilith than of Ithuriel."

"So he's not—he _wasn't_ —Valentine's son?"

Jem shook his head.

"Nor was he Jocelyn's. You can see now, perhaps, why the Brothers are so eager to examine him. It was distortion of the natural order that should not have been possible. Still, it remains."

"And me?"

"You are, as you know, the son of Stephen his wife Céline Montclaire. They were both Shadowhunters, and their conception of you was—" Jem paused. "Very much organic. However, by the time Céline fell pregnant with you, Valentine had already begun to despair over his experiment with Jonathan, and decided to experiment on your mother instead, in anticipation of Jocelyn falling pregnant again. Forgoing the blood of Lilith, Valentine fed your mother Ithuriel's blood alone."

"So I'm not—" Jace began, mouth dry.

"No," Jem finished. "You bear no blood or mark from Lilith, which is what separates your from Jonathan."

"And is that what he did to Clary? Gave her Ithuriel's blood?"

Jem shook his head.

"No, and this is the part even The Clave does not know. Jocelyn was already planning on leaving Valentine when she found she was pregnant with Clarissa. He didn't know."

"So he never experimented on her?" Jace clarified, feeling relief rushing in.

"No," Jem said. "But he was dabbling with forces he could not control, forces which affected both Jocelyn and Clarissa."

"What do you mean?" Jace asked, feeling sick again.

"It was Jocelyn who discovered Ithuriel in Valentine's prison, and Jocelyn who freed him. In exchange for this mercy, Ithuriel _bestowed_ a gift of her, and Clarissa, whom she carried inside of her."

"I don't—" Jace croaked, but Jem went on.

"The blood you and Jonathan bear was not freely given. Still powerful, certainly, but nothing compared to the piece of himself Ithuriel freely gave to Jocelyn, and which Clarissa now bears."

"So what does that mean for her?" Jace asked. "And what— _how_ —do you know all this?"

"Jocelyn told me. I performed the protection spell on her when Clarissa was born at Jocelyn's behest, and she told me what had befallen her with Ithuriel. I can't tell you what it means for Clarissa because I don't know, but I can tell you that she is powerful beyond any measure her father could ever have conceived."

"Fuck," Jace breathed, no longer able to keep the word back. He glanced at Jem again before mumbling, "Sorry, I just—"

Jem shook his head, slim fingers brushing Jace's shoulder in a reassuring gesture.

"I understand it is a great deal to take in, and I am sorry to have to burden you with it. However, I think perhaps it's time Clarissa learned the truth, and when she does, it will be painful. It should come from someone who cares for her as I think you do."

Jace looked down, clenching her teeth. Lucian Greymark, who'd stood as Clary's father all the years of her life, had died on Broselind plane during the final battle. He'd held the line against the line against The Circle and Valentine's un-Heavenly Host, and it was the only reason Jace, Alec, and the others had been able to get through and stop Valentine.

Jace's throat ached when he thought of Clary weathering Luke's death alone, without even the bittersweet knowledge of how many lives he'd saved to comfort her. Jace's resolve hardened at that, and Jem seemed to sense it, because he rose to his feet in a single, fluid motion. Despite everything, there was still something of the Brotherhood about him, though the smile he bent on Jace was human and warm.

"If you should ever need me," he said as Jace stood as well. "I promise to help you in any way I can."

Jace glanced at him, bemused.

"Why?" he finally blurted.

Jem smiled, studying Jace again as if he somehow found him familiar and dear. It wasn't unpleasant, exactly, just...heavy. Jace felt the keen responsibility of that affection, and an odd duty not to betray the confidence Jem seemed to have in him swelled in his chest.

"Because," Jem replied, extending an elegant musician's hand, slender and nimble as Jace's own. "The Carstairs owe The Herondales."

"I—" Jace stammered, though after a second he reached forward and accepted the gesture, the question he'd been getting ready to ask falling away. For reasons he couldn't totally explain, he found his gaze pulled to the faded Parabatai rune, and he nodded. "So," he said finally. "Should I just text you, or..."

Jem's lips quirked up.

"Magnus will know how to reach me, should the time come. Until then, good luck, Jace Herondale."

"You too," Jace agreed. "With your...girlfriend, or whatever?"

At this, Jem laughed, though it was tinged with a slight edge of nervousness. He inclined his head to Jace in a courtly manner Jace was sure no one had used in a hundred years. Not sure how to respond beyond knowing he'd look like a complete twat if he repeated the gesture, Jace just gave Jem a casual salute and watched him retreat to the gabled window to the attic.

"Jem?" he called after a pause, just as the former Silent Brother prepared to step gracefully back through it.

Jem turned, gaze earnest.

"If you hear anything about Jonathan's body..." he began, but Jem nodded.

"You will be the first to know," Jem assured him.

With that, he was gone.

Jace ran a hand through his hair as he sank back down, blowing out a breath. He could feel everything Jem had told him reforming into a vice in his chest, squeezing tight enough that he felt like he couldn't breathe. He panted slightly as he considered the monumentality of it all, the responsibility, and he thought of a second he might pass out.

He had no idea how he'd go about finding Clary, or explain to her what had really happened between them. He hadn't forgotten, even three years later, the look of loathsome betrayal she'd given him the day he'd left to join Jonathan and his father in Idris, and he'd experienced enough of life's cruelty since then to know that it wasn't a sentiment that time would have cooled. Still, when he remembered what he'd seen shining in her jade eyes the night they'd said "I love you", he felt the vice slackening its grip, allowing his lungs room to expand again. He'd made the mistake of lying to her once, and it was one he'd bitterly regretted. This time, come what may, he didn't intend to have any such regrets.

"J?" someone called, and Jace turned to watch Alec climbing through the window much the same way Jem had, with the graceful assurance of a Shadowhunter. Still, there was something new in his bearing, too, something that he hadn't had as a younger man. Jace knew where he'd gotten it, and though it felt good to see Alec happy, it made his thought ache just the same.

Alec was still dressed in his mourning white, a ceremonial seraph blade at his hip.

"How are you holding up?" Alec asked, discreetly sizing his Parabatai up.

"Fine," Jace said, exhaling another breath as he rubbed his palms against his jeans. "How was it?"

Despite everything, and despite the glory The Clave had been trying to thrust on Jace, he hadn't been able to bear seeing his father's body burned. Alec had silently borne the responsibility of it instead, and knowing how little Alec cared for the spotlight, Jace had appreciated it beyond words. Besides, he didn't need them. Their bond told Alec he was grateful, just like it told Jace that Alec was happy to do it.

Alec shrugged at Jace's question, knowing Jace didn't really want to know. Instead he just sat down next to Jace, gazing out at the plane. They sat for a moment in silence, and Jace fell the silent call to action in his chest again.

"Is Magnus with you?"

Alec didn't bother to hide his surprise. Jace and Magnus tolerated each other for Alec's sake, but neither insulted him by pretending they weren't both more at ease when the other wasn't around.

"He portaled to New York this morning to pack. Why, what's—"

" I need to talk to him," was all Jace said. "How soon can we leave?"

Alec considered.

"Mum and Dad are just setting the house in order. We'll leave tomorrow."

Jace nodded.

"Jace," Alec began again. "What's—"

Jace took a long breath before looking Alec in the eye.

"I'm going back for her."

* * *

"Fray," Adam called. "You're cut."

"Oh thank god," Clary said, sagging against the bar.

This had been her third double this week, and if she had to stomach one more 'excuse me? waitress?' she was going to lose it. She knew she should be grateful for a job at The Modern, the upscale epicurean companion to the Modern Museum of Art. Three days a week here was enough to pay her bills, allowing her to spend the rest of the time in her studio. Still, she was exhausted. Between her schedule at The Modern and preparing for her first solo show at an up-and-coming gallery in Brooklyn, she'd barely slept at all the last month.

At the word she'd been cut, Clary dropped off her apron and began flying through her side work, grateful that her final table—a trio of Japanese businessmen—had already paid out. The show was tomorrow, and the sooner she got out of here, the sooner she could go to bed.

She'd finished in twenty minutes—something of a record, she was sure— and she nearly sighed in relief as Adam signed her checkout sheet and she clocked out. She was so tired she even waved off her shift drink, accepting Adam's bland congratulations on her show.

"Thank you," she said, resisting the urge to sprint to her locker and gather her coat and purse.

"Clary, hold up a sec."

She was tempted to pretend she hadn't heard Daniel, knowing what that tone clearly signified. Still, she couldn't quite bring herself to be that much of a bitch, especially considering it was never a good idea to piss off your lead bartender.

She turned, hoping he just wanted to wish her good luck as well.

"Can you please run these?" he said, indicating three martini in the well.

She sighed, knowing she ought to. After twenty-six hours in three days, what was twenty more seconds?

Seeing her tacit acceptance, Daniel said, "Seventy-two," and Clary turned to glance at the small table in the back before groaning.

Three well-groomed, cocky young men in suits and over-shined foreign dress shoes sat their, feet irreverantly kicked up onto the leather seats.

"I'll be here all night," Clary said, making no move to grab a tray from the cubby.

Ridley, Tanner, and Chance were regulars, and they always insisted on being waited on by pretty girls. Clary had cocktailed in the bar enough times to know how much they liked to talk—well, brag—about themselves and their Wall Street jobs. If Clary went over, it would be another twenty minutes of shameless, unwanted come-ons, and that was if she was lucky. If they found out she was off the clock, she'd be forced to stay all night. It was pathetic, she knew, to whore out her precious time like that for money, but they were too lucrative of tippers to warrant refusing.

"Where's Jenni?" Clary asked, unwilling to go down without a fight. The boys hadn't seen her yet, and there was still a chance, however slim, she could wiggle her way out of this.

"I told her she could take a quick smoke break," Daniel said in a tone too casual to actual be casual.

Clary rolled her eyes. Jenni and Daniel had just started sleeping together, and Clary suspected he wanted to keep her away from Tanner, who she also had a rather sordid sexual history with.

"You know it doesn't matter, right?" Clary said in a bland voice. "She's gonna have to bring their next round, and then Tanner's gonna be all over her."

Daniel grinned impishly.

"Then maybe you could _really_ do me a solid and—"

"Oh fuck that noise," Clary said, loading the drinks onto a battered tray. "This is my third double this week, and if I take them I'll be here until last call. My exhibition's tomorrow, and I haven't seen my bed since Wednesday."

"Oh admit it," Daniel deflected. "J's not the only one with douche boy baggage. I was tending bar the night you and Ridley made out, remember?"

Clary set down the tray in defiance.

"You're really gonna throw that in my face right now?" she demanded. "Jenni can run her own fucking drinks."

The aforementioned had just returned from outside, and Tanner was already watching her as they all turned to look for their drinks.

"No, c'mon Fray! I'm sorry!" Daniel said as Jenni tied her apron back on. "Please."

Clary rolled her eyes and grabbed the tray with unwarranted hostility, stalking off. After several step she turned, walking backwards with tray still in hand.

"You owe me big time," she warned, gracefully swiveling back just as someone tall and broad was rising from their seat. Clary tried to course correct, but it was too late. She crashed into the stranger in fantastic fashion, the glasses soaking her white shirt as she jerked back, two of them falling off the upset tray entirely and smashing on the hardwood floor. Clary looked down at her white shirt in mortification, which was soaked through to her black bra underneath.

Immediately, the boys were on their feet, Tanner and Chance clapping as Ridley put a two fingers to his lips and gave a piercing wolf whistle. She had only enough time to turn and sneer at them before glancing back and up into the face of a Greek god.

The man she'd so inelegantly bumped into was tall—six three or more—and well muscled through the shoulders and chest, though his waist was exceedingly trim. He had white blonde hair, thick and straight, which had been pomaded back into a stylish undercut. And his face—Jesus, his _face_ —was perfect.

Despite his extraordinarily fair hair, his brows and lashes were dark, as were his were almond shaped eyes. They glittered like onyx gems as they drank her in, a stunning complement to his diamond white teeth. He had a long, straight nose and high cheekbones, and his lips were almost girlishly full. At least, they would have been on a lesser mortal, but the stranger—who looked to be in his late twenties—exuded a polished, masculine grace that sent a wave of heat into Clary's stomach.

More than any of that, though, he felt somehow... _familiar_ to Clary, even as she assured herself that she'd never seen him before. Something about him beckoned to her, some Otherness she couldn't place. She'd felt this tug once before, with... _him._ Still, she told herself the same thing she had three years ago, that it was not so much a cosmic connection between her and the stranger as it was that he was extraordinarily beautiful, and beauty like that was a tug all it's own.

"I'm so sorry," she fumbled, bending to retrieve the fallen glasses if only so she didn't have to look at the stranger anymore.

"Don't be," he said, kneeling to help her. He spoke in a posh Londoner's accent, and it didn't seem fair to Clary that he was English; Jesus, wasn't he attractive enough already? "It was entirely my fault."

He gave a glittering smile that reminded Clary of a jungle cat in the _best_ possible way.

"Besides," he continued in an almost purr. "In my experience, a beautiful woman is never in the wrong."

Clary flushed, suddenly acutely aware of her sodden shirt and the embarrassingly wanton bra beneath. She really needed to do laundry more often. To her mortification, or perhaps her dizzying delight, he glanced down as well, obsidian eyes tracing the arcs of her small but perky breasts.

Feeling almost drunk on his attention, she busied herself with the broken glass. However, in her agitation she let one of the bigger pieces slip, and it gauged her hand.

"Shit," she hissed, examining the deep, clean cut.

"Careful," he chided, taking her hand to inspect the cut as well. His touch seemed to burn her skin, and she fought down a shiver.

Maybe it had just been too long since she'd gotten some action—disappointing outing with Ridley aside—but she suddenly imagined herself pinned underneath him, his warm skin slick with sweat and sliding against hers as he—

Her tawdry fantasy was interrupted by Jenni.

"Oh my god, Clary," she said, kneeling beside them as well. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Clary said, tugging her hand away from the stranger's what she hoped was a casual manner. "I just need the first aid kit."

"I'll grab it," Jenni assured her. "Come sit at the bar."

Ridley whistled against as they passed him.

"Nicely done, Fray!" he crowed."Though I have to say that drink looks pretty good on you. Should've ordered it dirty, though."

Chance and Tanner laughed, but the blonde man was suddenly between the boys and Clary. Drawn to his full height, he was nearly a whole head taller than Ridley, who shrank back. His aura had darkened from polished to menacing, and Ridley turned to Tanner to hide what Clary could tell was latent unease.

"Charming," the man snapped. "But clearly unappreciated. You should apologise."

Ridley laughed, but there was less merriment in it than before.

"Jesus, Fray," he said, turning to the others again for support. "It was a joke. Tell your boyfriend to chill."

"Tell him yourself," the man offered in forceful invitation, baring his blinding teeth again.

Clary felt her pulse spike. She'd never been one to need guy to defend her honor, but there was something primally sexy about a guy tensing for a fight.

Ridley relented.

"I'm sorry, Clare Bear," he said a tad sheepishly. "I was just kidding."

"Like I said," the man sneered. "How very charming."

With this he brushed past Ridley, Clary following him.

"You didn't have to do that," Clary said as they approached the bar. "I can handle him."

He shrugged, dark eyes drinking her in again.

"I know," he said. "I'm going to be honest, that was mostly for me. Sometimes you're just spoiling for a little fight, you know?."

It was an odd thing to say, but he accompanied it with an disarming smile that seems to explain he was joking. They'd reached the bar now, and Clary eased herself onto a stool, pulling the first aid kit towards her as she examined the cut again.

"May I?" the man asked, extending an elegant hand to her. He had long, graceful fingers.

She let him take hers, wincing as he carefully cleaned it with an anticeptic wipe.

"So," he said in an effortlessly suave tone. "Now that I've maimed you, I suppose I should introduce myself. I'm Sebastian, though everyone calls me Bash."

"Clary," she offered shakily as he massaged neosporin into the cut.

"Clary," he repeated as he placed a butterly band-aid over it before looking up at her again. "That's lovely."

Jesus, she never seen anyone so good-looking. Well, except—she tamped down on the memory. Thinking about him always made her throat ache, even three years later.

"Thank you," she said as she glanced down at the now-bandaged cut.

He flashed a handsome smile.

"My pleasure," he said, fingers somehow having managed to tangle with hers. "I hope this isn't too forward, but can I buy you a drink?"

"I feel like I should be buying you one instead," she confessed, looking breathlessly down as his fingers danced along hers.

A graceful, feline smile tugged at his lips.

"You can buy the second round, then," he said. "Shall we?"

Clary glanced up at him, feeling half drunk already.

"I just have to—" she swallowed, half forgetting what she was trying to say when his thumb brushed her inner wrist. She cleared her throat, extracting her hand. "Grab my coat."

His eyes flicked down again to her sodden shirt, eying her chest again. Normally, she'd be offended, might even have slapped him, but he was just so _desperately_ sexy, that all she really felt was turned on.

"Take your time," he said finally, gaze flitting up to her face again and glittering. "I'll wait for you."

She nodded, sliding off the stool and heading for the back, grabbing Jenni by the arm as she did.

"Please tell me you still have that shirt in your locker," Clary said, pulling out her braid and running her hands into her hair, trying to coax some body into it.

"I do," Jenni said. "Oh my _god_ , are you going for drinks with Draco Malfoy?"

"Ye—wait, what?"

"Oh come on," Jenni laughed. "he looks _exactly_ like him."

"Stop talking about Draco Malfoy like he's a real person," Clary said. "It's weird."

"We've been over this," Jenni countered. "fictional and real and not mutually exclusive."

"You're embarrassing yourself," Clary pointed out.

Jenni only raised her eyebrows.

"Do you want to borrow my shirt or not?"

"Please don't do this," Clary said.

"Do what? Just admit you're going on a date with Draco Malfoy and it's all yours."

"It's a drink, not a date, and Draco Malfoy isn't real."

Jenni only shrugged.

"Have fun smelling like vodka all night with your bra hanging out.

She made to close her locker.

"Okay, fine!" Clary said. "I'm having drinks with Draco Malfoy. Please don't tell Harry."

Jenni smirked in satisfaction, throwing the black silky top to Clary.

"I'm so jealous of you," Jenni said as Clary hastily put on tinted chapstick and reapplied her mascara. "That guy is unbelievably hot. Girl, you have to bang him."

Clary laughed.

"Jennifer Lindhomme!"

"Oh my god," Jenni continued. "I bet he's incredible in bed. And can you imagine how good he must look naked? Seriously, yum. You have to draw me pictures!"

"Jesus Christ," Clary said. "I'm not gonna sleep with him...tonight," she finished, and Jenni cackled.

"Good _girl_ , Fray."

"Okay, how do I look?" Clary said, extending her arms.

"Perfect," Jenni said, giving her a soft spritz of her elegant Givenchy perfume. "And now you smell like Heaven, too."

"Thanks," Clary said, surprised by how nervous she was. It was a good kind of nervous, though; the kind only one other person had made her. The thought sent a stab of pain through her gut, but she pushed it down before it could begin to hemorrhage into something worse.

She strode with what she hoped was confidence back into the restaurant. Bash was sitting at the bar, twisting the stem of a martini glass between thumb and forefinger, making the liquid swish elegantly against the glass. The look he gave her as she approached made her panties a little wet. It was deliciously predatory, even in defiance of the word's otherwise negative connotation, a searing mixture of appreciation, intrigue, and desire, like he wanted to know all of her secrets, body and soul.

She felt her mouth go dry as she imagined him stripping her naked, his mouth on her breasts as he pounded in to her. She could tell by his bearing and meticulous appearance that he was a man of high standards; the type of man who held himself to a degree of excellence in all his endeavours, sexual and otherwise. Clary'd only slept with one person like that before, and the sex with him had been the best of her life.

"Ready?" Bash offered as she clamped down on the pain again.

"Yes," she breathed, and he gave a charming smile, flashing his gleaming teeth.

"Shall we, then?" he placed a hand casually to the small of her back, a gesture that seemed more genteel than intimate.

She nodded, letting him usher her to the door and murmuring her thanks as he held it for her. She felt him discreetly eying her backside in her tight black jeans, and it made her mouth water a little. She wasn't making a huge mistake, was she, letting a stranger wisk her away? She glanced back up at him, reassured by his warm grin.

"So, where are you taking me?" she asked as he tightened his lips and gave a sharp whistle to hail a cab.

A cab skittered to the curb, and Bash opened the door and gestured for her to step inside.

"You'll see," he purred, raising her eyebrows and giving the driver an address.

"You're not going to kill me, are you?"

His feline expression softened into something more genuine.

"Of course not," he said, sounding almost hurt.

"I'm sorry," she said quickly. "That was a—bad joke."

He seemed to relax at this, stretching out his lean legs and crossing them at the ankle. She eyed the expensive leather dress shoes he wore and the glittering Rolex on his left wrist. So, he was rich. It didn't surprise her; most of The Modern's patrons were. Still, he wore his wealth in a way that suggested he wasn't impressed with himself for having money, and it made her feel better about the ratty Converse she wore and the shithole of an apartment she, Maia, and Simon shared in Bushwick.

He wore a flat signet ring on his right hand, and Clary studied it. It had an "M" stamped on it's flat face, and the band was adorned with three stars. Something about it nagged at her, as if she'd seen in before, but she brushed it aside.

"Your ring is beautiful," she said instead. "Is it a family heirloom?"

He seemed pleased she'd noticed, and extended his hand so she could examine it more closely.

"It belonged to my father," he explained, and there was a sadness in his voice she recognised, that she sometimes still heard in her own even four years after Jocelyn's death.

"I'm sorry," she said in answer, and he looked momentarily disarmed. "My mom died, too," she explained.

"Thank you," he said finally. "And I—I'm sorry about your mum as well."

By this time they'd pulled up to an unremarkable Japanese restaurant called Village Yokocho. Bash pulled a solid gold money clip from his pocket that seemed to Clary had to be holding close to a thousand dollars, peeling off a crisp hundred, handing it to the driver and waving off change. He slipped gracefully from the seat, extending a hand to help Clary out as well.

"My lady?" he said as she took it. A jolt of electricity zipped up her arm as he effortlessly intertwined their fingers.

"This isn't what I expected," she said, flashing her id to the bouncer and following him into the dimly-lit restaurant, its ceiling criss-crossed with paper lanterns in vibrant shades of blue and green. He didn't reply, simply lead her past the crowded tables to an unremarkable door in the back, which was unmarked except for a piece of unimpressive computer paper taped to it. It read,

"No more than four people (in a group)

No standing

No shouting

No screaming."

"Ready?" Bash said, grinning at her confusion.

"Is this like a sex thing?" she asked, suddenly nervous. "Because if it is, I'm sorry but I—"

He only laughed, and it was a smooth, beautiful sound.

"Decidedly not."

"Then what—"

"I promise you what's behind this door is worth it," he said with another reassuring smile. "Do you trust me?"

He extended a slender hand again, obsidean eyes glittering.

 _I can show you the world, shining, shimmering, splendid._

"Alright," she agreed, and he beamed.

"Alright," he echoed, pushing the door open to reveal a dim, cramped staircase and ushering her to ascend it.

She hesitated but did as she was bid, trudging up the worn oak stairs. Bash was close enough behind her that she could feel his cool breath ruffling her hair, and some absurd part of her wanted to turn and press him against him against the wall so she could feel his body against hers.

However, before she could give the idea serious thought, they were emerging into a place out of time; a bar that looked like it had been plucked right from the 1920's. There were industrial bulbs hanging over the worn bar and plush but faded velvet couches interspersed about the tables.

"A speakeasy," she said in appreciation, and he smiled.

"Not as amusing as a sex dungeon, maybe, but I promise the drinks are better."

She laughed her relief as he ushered her to the polished oak bar.

"Sebastian," the bartender greeted, leaning over it slightly to shake Bash's hand. "Long time, no see, brother. What can I get you?"

"Too long," Bash agreed. "And a dirty martini."

"Hendricks?"

"Please. Clary?" Bash turned to her, placing a hand in the curve of her low back in invitation.

Clary flushed. She knew next to nothing about cocktails. She mostly drank Burnett's and cheap beer. Besides, Bash's fingers flexed gently along her spine in a caress so gentle she was half convinced she was imagining it. Still, it was addling her senses either way.

"If you're not sure," the bartender, a tall, lithe guy with dark hair tied back into a man bun, offered without condescension. "You can tell me what you like, and I can make you something. What's your poison? Gin, rum, vodka—"

"Gin," she said, hoping Bash didn't assume she was just ordering it because he had. "With something floral, maybe?"

The bartender studied her with appreciation, green eyes not unlike Clary's glittering.

"This girl's got good taste, brother," he said, smiling at Clary. There was something almost elfish about him, so much so that for a second Clary swore his ears were tapered to near points.

"Of course she has," Bash said, smiling at Clary as his long fingers traced another slow circle on her back. "She's with me, isn't she?"

The bartender smirked knowingly before setting about making their drinks.

"So, is this your go-to spot to impress women?" Clary asked Bash, feeling obligated to prove she wasn't unaware of how slick he was, even if the truth was she didn't really care. It had been a long time since someone had gone to such lengths to impress her like this, especially something this fucking handsome.

Bash laughed, and it was a joyous and unguarded sound.

"You are the very first," he said.

She smiled coyly, loving how easy it was between them already.

"I bet that's what you say to all the girls."

He studied her with appreciation, eyes flicking to her lips before flitting to the bartender.

"Mel?" he asked the bartender.

"I've never seen Sebastian with a woman," he said, handing Clary her drink and starting on Bash's.

"A likely story," she ribbed, and Meliorn only smiled.

"Trust me," he said, trading a brief glance with Sebastian. "I can't lie."

"It's true," Sebastian said, grinning as Mel handed him his drink. "You should see him play poker. Cheers."

He raised his glass to Clary's and they sang as they touched. Clary smelled hers before taking a sip and nodding. Both Bash and Mel watched her, and she smiled in approval.

"It's delicious," she confirmed. "What's in it?"

"Gin, elderflower liquor, champagne and a few other things," Mel replied, giving a small, almost courtly bow. "I'm pleased you like it."

"It's great," she confirmed. "Thank you."

He nodded to both of them before sweeping down the bar, leaving Clary and Bash to find a small, intimate table in the back.

"So," she began. " _Sebastian_. Is that really your name?"

Sebastian grinned almost sheepishly.

"Why the Hell would I use it if it wasn't?" he laughed.

"I like it," Clary confessed. "It's...dashing."

"Dashing?" Sebastian repeated in a purr. The low light of the industrial bulbs glinted off his teeth as he grinned again. He looked like a pre-Raphaelite prince come to life. "In that case, I take it all back."

She laughed, looking down and tucking some copper hair behind to ear in a what she suspected was a somewhat poor attempt to hide her flush.

"So," he said when she'd composed herself enough to look back up at him. "Tell me about yourself, Clarissa Adele Fray."

She stiffened slightly, but he only gave a disarming smile.

"I saw it when you showed the bouncer your id," he explained. "I've got twenty fifteen vision."

She relaxed enough to smile.

"That hardly seems fair," she pointed out. "That you know my middle name and I don't know yours."

He considered this, depthless eyes glittering with amusement.

"It's Jonathan," he offered, and she must have stiffened again, because he frowned in bemusement.

"Do you...not like that name?"

"It's not that," Clary said hastily. "It's just—"

She broke off, and his expression changed into one of understanding.

"Ah," he said. "You have an ex named Jonathan."

She flushed, feeling stupid for it. When she didn't say anything, he continued.

"Was it serious?"

"I—it's not a big deal," she said, forcing herself not to bite her lip.

"Doesn't seem that way," he pointed out gently. "You fell hard, huh?"

"I was really young," Clary said, not wanting to remember how it had been with Jace, how he'd made her feel before it had all gone to Hell. "It was just—stupid teenage stuff. Sorry, this isn't—I shouldn't have brought it up."

"No," he said at once, touching her hand gently, running his thumb down her left ring finger. "I don't mind. I understand."

She smiled, not wanting to dwell on it anymore, especially when things had been going so nicely.

"It's all good," she clarified. "We don't have to get into the wholly shitty thing."

Bash studied her for a second but didn't push, though he continued to stroke her finger.

"Of course. I didn't mean to pry. Let's talk about something else. What do you do when you're not at The Modern? Are you still in school?"

"I graduated from NYU last year," she said. "Now I'm starving artist."

He smiled.

"I might have guessed," he said, gently flipping her hand over so he could trace her palm. "You have artist's hands."

She laughed, if only to fight off a pleasurable shudder. Shameless slut that she was, she couldn't help but imagining his fingers skimming down her thighs instead, and between her legs.

"I actually have my first solo show tomorrow," she said, and he beamed.

"That's brilliant! Where at?"

"A gallery in Brooklyn," she said. "It's really small, but it's a start, I guess."

"What's it called?" he asked keenly.

"Helix," she said, blushing a little again. "Why, are you planning on showing up or something?"

He gave her a feline smile.

"Would you like me to?" he ventured.

The flush deepened.

"I'm sure you have better things to do on a Friday than go to some dumb art show."

"That's true," he admitted, and she felt a pang before he continued, saying, "But I know anything you create with these beautiful hands won't be anything close to dumb."

She bit her lip, and he watched the gesture greedily, though he did't fight her when she retracted said hands to run them through her hair.

"I'm sorry," he said at once. "Was that too forward?"

"No," she laughed. "I'm just not used to guys being this direct."

He permitted himself a somewhat self-satisfied smile, though it was still genuine enough to keep from being arrogant.

"Then you haven't been meeting the right sorts."

"Apparently," she agreed. "But I'm always open to trying new things."

She hoped it hadn't been too much, but he looked delighted.

"Excellent."

The conversation progressed naturally from there, and Clary found herself dying to kiss Bash halfway through. However, despite his rather shameless flirting, he remained a perfect gentleman, even in the cab ride back out to Brooklyn with her. She was half-tempted to hang the consequences and invite him upstairs, but when she remembered the atrocious state of her bedroom, she decided against it. Besides, whatever was simmering between them felt...different, and she didn't want to upset its delicate balance by hopping into bed with him.

"Thank you for a lovely evening," he said as he escorted her to her stoop.

"Thank you," she said. "Though I think I still owe you for the drinks."

He'd discreetly paid their tab when Clary had gone to the restroom, and brushed off her insistence she venmo him.

"If you really want to pay me back," he said, eyes dancing across her face. "You could give me your number, and let me take you out again."

She nodded, blushing as he extended his phone. He twirled it through elegant fingers as he accepted it back, slipping it into the pocket of his fitted dress slacks. Something about the movement churned an odd dread in her chest. It was as if she'd seen him do it before. However, knowing that was insane, she pushed it aside.

"I have a business dinner tomorrow night," he continued, seeming not to have noticed her distress. "But I will do my best to get out early for your show. And if not, maybe after?"

She smiled, trying not to look at his sensual lips.

"Great," she said, he smiled, too, brushing a soft kiss on her cheek.

"Until tomorrow, then," he said, smiling at her a final time.

"Tomorrow," she agreed, and he shot her a soft wink before descending the stairs and getting back into the tab.

She watched it slither down the street and out of sight, her head thudding dully against the front door.

"Jesus Christ," she breathed to herself, feeling the embarrassing but undeniable need to go upstairs, draw a bath, and get herself off. "This can't be real."


End file.
